


Someone You Might Have Been

by elrhiarhodan



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Miscommunication, Serious Illness, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 21:13:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6487609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The anklet comes off, and all of Neal’s plans, all of Peter’s plans, fall apart after an ill-timed confession.  The world is sometimes too big and yet not big enough.  (Ignores all of season five and six).</p><p>Story is complete as posted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I’m sorry … I didn’t – I guess I saw something that wasn’t there. I didn’t mean...” Neal stumbled over his words, shame and embarrassment like acid in his veins.

“Neal – don’t. Just … don’t.” Peter held up a hand, stopping Neal from saying anything else, coming any closer. 

Elizabeth remained at Peter’s side, her eyes huge, her face pale except for the high flags of bright red on her cheeks.

The three of them stood there in the Burkes’ living room, a portrait in agonized humiliation. Neal was the first to move. He shrugged into his jacket, picked up his hat, and left. He didn’t even say goodbye.

The walk back to the subway was endless, the ride back into Manhattan even longer. Neal didn’t remember changing trains, he didn’t remember getting out of the subway and he didn’t remember the walk to June’s house. He found himself in the apartment he’d lived in - lived well in - for the better part of the past four years and was struck by the thought that he couldn’t spend another night here. 

More accurately, he couldn’t bear the thought of spending another night in New York, in the same city – the same country as Peter and Elizabeth Burke. After this disaster - after what he did, there was no way back. No way that they’d ever be able to be friends again. The tide of shame flooded over him again, like a tsunami sweeping him out to sea.

Neal didn’t bother to pack a bag. He wanted nothing from this life. All he took was a set of identification and credit cards for Julian Drummond, an alias that not even Mozzie knew about. He had created Julian in the months after Kate had been killed, after Peter reinstated his deal. Even though he had told Peter he was done with running, there was always the possibility that he might need to leave without a trace. 

And that is exactly what he did.

_______

The front door closed quietly, the latch sliding into place with a soft click, but it may as well have slammed shut and set the walls rattling. Neal’s departure was an earthquake.

“Elizabeth…” Peter turned to his wife, something like pleading in his voice.

She went to him, wrapping her arms around him, burying her face against his warm, broad chest. He held her close, his own arms tight around her.

“Hon…what just happened?”

“I don’t know – I don’t know.” 

One moment, the three of them were cheerfully talking, celebrating Neal’s successful completion of his four years of “probation.” They weren’t drunk – they hadn’t even opened the champagne yet.

The next moment Neal was telling Peter, telling Elizabeth how much he loved them, and how much he was looking forward to their future together. Peter wasn’t even thinking that Neal’s declaration was anything but platonic until he kissed him.

On the mouth.

The kiss wasn’t overly intimate – it was sweet and gentle and respectful, but the intent was clear. 

Peter had frozen when Neal’s lips touched his, and he didn’t move when Neal pulled back. He didn’t move when Neal turned to Elizabeth, smiled and said again, “I love you both, so very much.” 

It was only when Neal kissed his wife that he was able to take action. He pulled Neal away from his wife like a jealous husband. He _was_ a jealous husband. 

Peter couldn’t quite remember what he said, but he’d never forget how quickly Neal’s face lost all color, and then turned bright red.

“I never … I would never... I had no idea.” He was in shock, and couldn’t seem to articulate his feelings.

El sighed. “I did. I’ve wondered.”

He looked at her sharply. “You have?”

“Yeah – even before Sara left. I noticed how he looks to you, looks at you.”

“No – I don’t think so. You’ve got to be, you have to be – you’re wrong.” He shook his head.

“Hon … he does. Clearly.” El shook her head. 

“Why?” Peter felt like he was drowning, thrown overboard, into deep water when all he was expecting was dry land. “He flirts with everyone – he’s not serious about anyone. He’s commitment-phobic. Isn’t that why Sara walked?” 

“Or maybe he was already committed and was just waiting until he was free to declare his feelings, to go after what he really wanted?” Sadness added an unaccustomed touch of gravity to her tone. “You didn’t have to be so cruel, though. Even if his advances were completely unwelcome, you didn’t have to be so mean to him. What you said was unforgivable.”

Peter was at sea – he couldn’t remember what he said to Neal – everything was caught up in a sense of shock and jealousy.

Elizabeth tossed another bombshell at him – one that wiped all other thoughts from his mind. “I would have been okay with it, you know?”

Peter stared at her. “You want Neal?” He felt a little sick, a little disoriented.

“No, hon, but I would have been okay if you did.” She reached up and stroked his cheek. “What happened tonight wasn’t about me, hon. It was about you.”

Peter didn’t say anything. This was territory he never let himself think about. Ever, because once that genie was out of the bottle, it would never go back in.

There was nothing left to say. Peter got up and took Satchmo for a walk. Elizabeth put away the elaborate dinner she’d made to celebrate Neal’s “release” and his new job with the Bureau.

Neither of them was hungry.

_______

Julian Drummond caught the red-eye from New York to London with a connecting flight to Zurich. During the layover, he bought a cell phone and called Moz. Not surprisingly, he didn’t answer. Neal sent him a text telling him to pick up the next time an international number rang through.

He did. “What are you doing in London? You are in London, right?”

“I’m in Heathrow - but not for long.”

It didn’t take the space of two heartbeats for Moz to explode with questions. Neal waited for him to calm down before speaking.

“Moz - I’m sorry, I had to go.” _I can’t just be a permanent fixture on the fringe of a life I was never going to have. A life that I am not entitled to._

“And you just had to leave the country without saying goodbye to your friends?”

Neal knew that after everything, that was a shabby and shameful thing to do. “Moz, please understand - I had to go. I had to…”

There was silence on the other end of the line. “Yeah - I understand. How bad was it?”

Neal didn’t want to give Moz the details. “Bad. I fucked up badly. I don’t think I’ve ever made such a colossal mistake.”

“You always were a fool for love, _mon frère._ Do you want me to do anything?”

Yes he was – a fool, an idiot – and he should have known better, but he had let his hopes and dreams get in the way of the reality of the perfect circle of Peter and Elizabeth.

“Just the plans we’ve put in place. If you still want to do that.”

“Of course I do - how could you think otherwise?”

Neal closed his eyes in gratitude for Mozzie’s unwavering loyalty. “I don’t deserve you.”

“It’s a two-way street, Neal. Don’t worry about it. Is there anything else?”

“Just take care of yourself, Mozzie.”

“You too, Neal.”

He was reluctant to break the connection. “If Peter…” But he didn’t think that Peter would.

“I’ll tell him nothing.”

He closed his eyes in gratitude. “Thank you, Moz. Thank you.”

Moz ended the call, and Neal stood there for a moment, staring at the cellphone screen as it went dark. 

The connecting flight took only three hours, but by the time it landed, Neal felt like he had left New York years - maybe decades ago. 

There was a time, shortly after he was locked up, when Neal would constantly fantasize about going to Europe. He’d travel in style - first class all the way, never a connecting flight, never a hassle with luggage or the _hoi polloi_ traveling in coach. This trip was the fulfillment of that fantasy - or a part of that fantasy. Of course, in his dreams, Kate was with him. He’d hold her fine-boned little hand through the trip, because she didn’t really like to fly, caressing her knuckles with his thumb, lifting it up to kiss when the plane took off and landed. 

But Kate was dead - three years dead and ashes in the wind.

Strangely, Europe never beckoned when he was working for Peter. Neal shut down that train of thought very, very quickly.

Neal had one destination and he wasn’t going to allow himself to be distracted by the city’s many museums and art galleries. 

While international political pressure may have loosened the famed confidentiality of Swiss banking laws for their depository accounts, nothing could impact the cloak of secrecy for the safety deposit box holders. Before he had returned to the U.S. to find Kate, before he had fallen into the hands of the FBI, Neal picked a bank that used biometrics, rather than mechanical keys for access to his repository for many of the smaller items that had fallen into his hands and a place to keep a fortune in cash. 

He went from the airport directly to the bank. He gave the rather obsequious manager his account number and submitted to the scans. The man then handed him a large, heavy box and Neal was ushered into a small, private room.

Neal ignored the bags of Krugerrands and gemstones and jewelry. There was enough cash in the box that he didn’t need to liquidate them now. He didn’t spare a thought for the archival boxes tucked in the bottom - he knew what was there: a carpet page from an ancient Irish manuscript, a Degas study of ballet dancers, and a very small, very beautiful enameled portrait of an anonymous French noblewoman, which he had stolen from a museum in Orleans only because it reminded him of Kate. All he took was the cash – it would be more than enough to bankroll the new life he was starting as Julian Drummond.

Neal thought about returning the stolen artwork - but that would send up red flags and set the hounds on him. Or maybe just one hound. And he thought that just maybe he could repatriate the portrait, if just to start the chase. But the thought of the disappointment on Peter’s face when he caught him - and he would catch him, because that would be the point of the chase anyway - was enough to make Neal close the box and return it to its slot in the vault.

Neal remained in Zurich only for the time it took to get back to the airport and catch a flight to Paris, to find a way to start a life all over again.

_______

Peter figured that if he gave Neal the time and space of a weekend, he’d get over most of his embarrassment. Of course, there would still be some awkwardness, but if he played it cool – like it never happened – the uncomfortable feelings would dissipate quickly. And truthfully, he needed the weekend too. He needed to think about his reactions - no, not his jealous behavior, but the instant before, when Neal kissed him. How good it felt - how differently he might have reacted if Neal hadn’t turned to Elizabeth. Or maybe not. He had spent the last four years not feeling anything for Neal other than a mild fascination.

Okay, not so mild. But he never let himself act on that interest - it was wrong, improper, _insane_ \- and he really had no clue that Neal had any feeling for him, either. That was the most difficult thing of all - how he missed something that was so obvious to Elizabeth. 

Apparently he was still completely clueless when it came to human emotion. Pity Neal didn’t hold up a sign that said “I ♥ Peter.” 

But on Monday morning, Neal wasn’t in when he arrived. The morning briefing passed and he wasn’t in the office. Peter automatically went to pull up the tracking data, and stopped. There was no data to pull up. He started to call Neal, but got interrupted, or he allowed himself to get interrupted.

There was a preliminary run through for an operation scheduled at eleven, an op that Neal was playing a key part in, but he still hadn’t shown up at work. Hughes made a pointed comment that if this was the behavior that one could expect from Neal Caffrey, free man, maybe they should never have taken the tracker off. At least Hughes didn’t say that the Bureau shouldn’t have hired him.

Peter understood, he really understood – Friday night was embarrassing, but Neal needed to cowboy up and get to work. He didn’t want to think about the apology he owned Neal.

At noon, Peter broke down and called Neal. There was no answer. He sent him a text and an email. At one-thirty, when he hadn’t heard from Neal at all, he called June, but she was out.

By the end of the day, Peter was officially worried. He really didn’t think that Neal would have harmed himself – but he wouldn’t have put it past Neal to do something equally foolish, like drinking himself sick over the weekend.

He called El before heading home for the day. “I’m going to swing by Neal’s – he never showed up for work, and he’s not answering his phone or his messages.”

“You’re just doing this now?” El sounded a little angry at him.

“He’s a grown man – I’m not his keeper.” _Not anymore_.

“But you’re his friend. Aren’t you?”

“Yes. Of course I am.”

There was silence on the other end of the line, but he could hear her breathing. 

“El?”

“Do right by Neal, Peter. He loves you. Make it right.”

Something must have gotten caught in his eye – that was the only explanation for the sudden stinging rush of tears. “Hon... I will.”

“Call me if you need me. If Neal needs me. Please.”

He promised to.

The uptown traffic was horrific. An accident on the West Side Highway made the normally twenty-minute trip to Riverside Drive well over an hour and a half long.

June’s Romanian housekeeper, Marta gave him a funny look when she let him in. But then, she always gave him odd looks. He went right upstairs. Neal’s door was opened and Peter could smell the faintest hint of June’s perfume. She was in the apartment.

“He’s gone, Peter.”

“What?” His heart seemed to skip a beat.

“He left sometime on Friday night.”

“And he hasn’t been back?”

“Neal isn’t coming back.” She handed him a note. “I was away until just a few hours ago and came up to say hello. I found the door opened and the note.”

Peter read it.

_June – My time here is done. I am sorry I can’t stay and say goodbye in person, but I need to leave now. Thank you for everything._

_Love, Neal_  


June’s voice could have cut glass. “What happened, Peter? I thought he was staying – he had such great plans.”

“I – I don’t …” Peter stopped himself. “We had a misunderstanding – I didn’t think it was serious, but I guess I was wrong.” He was sick at heart, sick to his stomach. “Was this it? Was there another note?”

“No, just this one – and this.” Next to an abandoned cell phone, there was a black leather folder and a set of folded papers. Peter knew exactly what they were – Neal’s new ID and his contract.

“He took nothing with him.” June was puzzled. “Everything I had given him is still here – it’s as if he never was.”

That wasn’t quite true – there was a half finished painting on the easel and a sketchbook resting on the arm of the couch. But still, the room that Peter had spent so many hours in – challenging and satisfying hours – was empty. Neal was gone, and in a way, it was as if he had never been there at all.

The meeting with Hughes the next morning wasn’t pleasant. 

“What do you mean that Caffrey’s gone?”

Peter scrubbed his face. “Neal left – for good.” He took out Neal’s ID and contract and gave them to Hughes. 

“Why? After everything we went through – after all of the negotiating, the planning and he just up and left? That doesn’t make sense – not even for Caffrey.” To say that Hughes was unhappy was like calling the incident at Chernobyl a minor malfunction. 

It would have been too easy for Peter to let Hughes assume that Neal was flighty, that he simply changed his mind. “Don’t blame Neal - it’s not his fault. We had … a disagreement. I made a mistake and thought that if I left Neal alone, let him work through the issue, we’d – he’d be fine. I was wrong.”

Hughes looked at him. He seemed to see everything that Peter wasn’t telling him. “Maybe it’s for the best.”

Peter stared at his boss. “The best?”

Reese took a sip of his coffee. “You’ve become very close. I’ve had concerns for a long time about your ability to remain objective with regards to Mr. Caffrey.” He grimaced, putting down his cup in disgust. “I never really thought he’d make it through the four years – and there were times when it looked like he’d bring you crashing down with him, but you’ve pulled through.”

“If you thought that, why did you back the arrangement to bring Neal on as an analyst?”

“Because he’s nothing short of brilliant, and he helped you maintain at ninety-two percent closure rate.”

“Ninety-three percent. Probably closer to ninety-four, now.”

Hughes hand waved the correction. “He was good for the Bureau and the department – and that’s always going to be my first consideration.” He took the ID and the contract. “I’ll handle the paperwork with the Administrator’s office. Go tell your team that Neal’s gone and start filling in the holes. You’ve still got to run the Arden Securities operation. You’ll need someone to step in.”

They discussed a suitable replacement for Neal as the undercover operative for an insider trading sting for a few minutes before Peter broke the news to his team. Diana waited until the end of the day before cornering him in his office.

“What happened, boss?”

“Neal decided, after everything, that he didn’t want a full time job.” That sounded plausible.

“Bullshit.”

Peter looked up at his senior agent. “Excuse me?”

Diana didn’t flinch at his tone – she never would. “Neal was as eager to start as a newly graduated agent. Hell – maybe more so.”

Peter got up and closed his door. Diana was probably the one person in the office he could share this with. “Have you ever noticed anything about Neal – how he …” Peter tried not to blush. “…Looked at me?” He couldn’t meet Diana’s eyes.

“Like the sun rose and set over your shoulders? Like how you were his sole reason for being? Like how the word of Peter Burke was the word of God?”

Peter was appalled. “How did I not see this?”

“Peter – what happened?”

This time, he couldn’t prevent a heated flush of embarrassment. “Neal kissed me on Friday night. He told me…” He swallowed. “He told me he loved me, that he loved Elizabeth.”

“Ah…”

“Ah? That’s all you have to say is ‘ah’?”

“I thought that might be the case. You didn’t take his declaration too well, I guess.”

“He kissed me.” Peter tried to muster some outrage.

Diana bit her lip. “Did you like it?”

Peter looked at her sharply. “I’m a married man.” He didn’t tell her he kissed El too and he behaved like a jealous ape.

Eyebrows arched, Diana kept after him. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I don’t know … yeah, well. Yeah. I liked it.”

Diana just looked at him. 

“Even if I was going to act on it – I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. Neal works…” Peter corrected himself, painfully. “Neal worked for me, do you know how many kinds of wrong it would be for me to have an affair with a co-worker.”

“You make it sound like something dirty.”

“It would be … I am married.”

“What if Elizabeth agreed?”

Peter remembered what El said last night – that she wouldn’t have minded. “You’ve discussed this with my wife? You’ve discussed me having a ‘relationship’ with another person with my wife?”

Diana nodded. “It’s come up a couple of times – we’ve had lunch occasionally.”

“I don’t know whether I should be more upset that you and Elizabeth have talked about me having an affair with Neal, or that I had no idea that he had feelings for me.”

Diana grinned at him. “You are so evolved, boss. You don’t seem the least bit freaked out that Neal’s a man.”

Peter scrubbed his face. “Yeah – well … just call me hetero-flexible.” Truthfully, he wasn’t freaked at all. Neal was … Neal. Gorgeous, brilliant, loyal. Neal.

And he was _gone_.

“Do you want me to see if I can find him?”

“Yes – please.” Peter didn’t know what he was going to do when he caught up with Neal, but the thought of never seeing him again was unbearable. “You have access to his file – run his known aliases. I’ll get in touch with Moz – I can’t imagine that Neal skipped town without talking to him.”


	2. Chapter 2

Neal avoided mirrors – or at least, he avoided looking at his face in a mirror. When he did, all he could see was “idiot” or “moron” or “fuck up” tattooed across his forehead. The shame of Peter’s rejection and the complete misunderstanding of his intentions, his feelings, still burned. How could he even begin to think that Peter would have ever entertained any romantic thoughts about him? 

Like the blood on Lady MacBeth’s hands, the jailhouse stain was never going to wash off. No matter how much distance he put between himself as he was now and his past, to Peter he was always going to be a dirty criminal, taking something that wasn’t his, something he wasn’t entitled to. 

At night, in the luxury hotel room he was staying in, he’d replay the worst moments of the last four years – every time he failed, or let Peter down. He’d break them apart over and over again– like a forensic pathologist, obsessively finding every mistake he made, every single error. They all seemed so obvious now. He lay there, alone, cold, empty and wondered how he ever thought that he and Peter, he and Elizabeth – that they could be _them_. Like always, he wanted absolution from Peter. This time, though, he wasn’t going to get it.

He knew this was obsessive behavior. He knew he was wallowing. He knew it was unhealthy. But he didn’t stop.

Paris, despite its many museums – some with less than stellar security – didn’t interest him. There was no point in stealing anything – he suspected that Peter had issued a BOLO on him, that the Interpol databases were updated with all of his aliases and a few current photographs were put into circulation now. Besides, it really wasn’t a lot of fun anymore. His original crime spree had been as much about impressing Kate as it had been about the stuff. Nothing he could do now would ever impress Peter - not staying on the straight and narrow, and certainly not stealing and forging and conning and all the other things that once defined him.

Neal, or rather Julian Drummond, moved on. There was simply no one to impress and he couldn’t bring himself to give a rat’s ass about the stuff.

He settled for a while in Monte Carlo. Cash might be king, but it was a finite resource and he needed something to do. He cleared the blackjack tables so consistently that the pit bosses began to think he was cheating. Or card counting. Or both.

Neal switched to high stakes poker – which would have remained his game, but he played so well and won so much that he was approached for one of the televised games. Neal politely declined and left Monaco.

In the six months since he had fled New York in shame, he won several million Euros and it was all meaningless, except as proof of the old adage, lucky at cards, unlucky in love. 

He was restless, always looking out for a tall, dark haired man in a bad suit. There was a moment, towards sunset one evening in Venice. Neal had been wandering through the more well-traveled parts of the city, just moving with the crowds of tourists, when he found himself on the Rialto. There was a shout and he instinctively turned. A man in a gray raincoat was heading for him, and for a moment he thought it was Peter. The urge to flee was almost uncontrollable, and he was about to leap over the railing and onto a passing water bus when the man was intercepted by a tall blonde woman who hugged him and he kissed her. Neal watched, frozen, as the couple made their way down the other side of the bridge and disappeared into the mass of people.

No, it wasn’t Peter. It never would be Peter.

_______

After two months of fruitless searches, Diana gave up. “He’s a ghost, boss. He did an outstanding job of melting away. I’ve gone through every alias you gave me, every one we had on file from back when you were first after him. There’s nothing.”

“Put a BOLO out on him - update Interpol, circulate his photo.” Peter ignored the acid rising in his gorge. This was his fault. 

“You really think that Neal’s going to go back to the life?”

“I don’t think Neal’s going back what he was before, but…” _I need to find him._

Have you talked with the little guy?”

“Moz? Oddly enough - he’s not taking my calls.” 

Peter spun around and stared out of the window. It was a dreary November afternoon. He knew the sun was setting because the gray skies were turning to black, even though it was barely four-thirty. “Diana - I don’t know what to do.”

She took sympathy on him. “I don’t think there is anything you can do. Neal made a decision - you’re going to have to accept it.”

“But it was the wrong one - if I hadn’t been so blind - so stupid.” Peter closed his eyes, and he could still feel Neal’s lips press softly against him, he could still hear his words. _I love you so much._

“Peter, I’ll keep trying...I’ll see what else I can do.”

He turned back to Diana. “Thank you.”

It was surprising how life went on without Neal. He cultivated other assets, he always did - but none were as brilliant or as versatile as Neal. He looked out over the bullpen, his eyes drawn to the empty desk. If he didn’t bring Neal back soon, he was going to have to turn it over to someone else - there were a new crop of probies coming in and space was limited.

He needed to talk to Moz - he needed to hear from him that Neal was well and truly gone. He called Elizabeth and left her a message, asking her to reach out to Neal’s friend. They had formed such an unlikely friendship - he just hoped it would withstand the broken link.

That night, she didn’t say anything about Moz. Peter knew better than to push.

“Hon?”

He looked up from the files he brought home. Dinner had been quiet - like most meals since Neal left. He wondered when Neal had become the chief topic of conversation in their marriage. Once they got past “how was your day” and whether or not a bill had been paid or something needed fixing, there seemed little to talk about anymore.

“You okay?” El sat down next to him, her smile was sad - sort of like his own heart.

“I’m fine...just fine.”

“Liar.” She rested her head against his shoulder.

“How can you tell?”

“Because I love you.” Four simple words.

They hadn’t ever really talked about that night - nothing beyond what El said to him after Neal walked out.

“How did I not see it? I keep thinking about everything - it all seems so obvious now.”

El looked up at him, blue eyes searching. “You seem more accepting.”

“Neal was - is - my friend. I never let myself think about him otherwise. How could I?”

“But now?”

“Now - I don’t know. I could - it would be so easy.”

“If he walked through that door, what would you do?”

“Tell him I’m sorry and ask if we could start again.” He didn’t have to think twice. “But what about you?”

“What about me?”

“He said he loved you too.”

“Can you deal with that?”

“What do you mean?”

El thought for a moment, as if she was choosing her words carefully. “I like Neal - I always have, and if we had been different people - if you weren’t you and I wasn’t so much in love with you, I would have had no problem with being with Neal, had he offered. But I think that when he said he loves me, it’s doesn’t mean the same thing as what he told you. He doesn’t love me for me. He loves me because I am a part of you.”

_______

It took Peter another agonizingly long two months to get hold of Mozzie. El’s phone calls and messages went unreturned, and Peter spent much of his spare time trying to track Neal’s friend down.

Finally, Moz contacted him - a cryptic message that took him the better part of a day to decipher. 

They met in Columbus Park, which was oddly convenient for Peter, but he didn’t press the issue. Despite the elaborate code and the overall difficulty Peter had in getting in touch with Moz, this meeting was surprisingly exposed. The man was sitting at one of the chess tables, a game set up and waiting for an opponent. As Peter approached, Moz waved off a kid who was about to sit down.

“Suit.” Moz nodded and he took a seat. “We meet again.” He gestured to the chess set. “White or black?”

“I’m not in the mood to play games, Moz. Where’s Neal.”

Moz peered at him through his thick glasses. “Why should I tell you, of all people?”

Peter sighed. “Because he’s my friend. I’m worried about him.”

“If Neal was your friend, why did he feel the need to flee so precipitously? Especially after making all of those plans with you?” Moz didn’t disguise the bitterness of his tone.

“You’re not unhappy that he’s gone?” That really wasn’t a question.

“Suit - I never thought the life of a junior G-man was suitable for Neal. But that’s what he wanted. He wanted …” Moz didn’t have to go any further.

“I know what he wanted.”

“Did you have to let him down so harshly? Did you have to humiliate him?” 

Mozzie’s words were like hammers on an anvil.

“He caught me by surprise - I don’t even remember what I said to him.” That was Peter’s own shame, his grief. “I’d take it back if I could - every word.”

Moz busied himself with the chess pieces, playing an imaginary game.

“Please - where is he?” Peter knew he was begging and he didn’t care.

“He’s gone. I haven’t heard from him since the day after he left. He called me from an airport.”

“He didn’t come to you to say goodbye?” 

“No, Suit, he didn’t. He just left.”

“You really don’t know where he is?” Peter found that rather incredible.

“No - I don’t. And before you ask - I haven’t heard from him since.”

Moz wasn’t lying. He had a tell - whenever he was upset, he started cleaning his glasses, and the way he was going at them now, Peter wouldn’t be surprised if he wiped the prescription off.

“If you do - if you can reach Neal - please tell him I’m sorry. I want him to come home.”

Moz put his glasses back on and stared at Peter. “I’ll consider it.”

Peter got up and was about to leave when he turned back to Moz. “One more thing - my wife - Elizabeth. She misses you - if she calls - call her back.”

Moz bit his lip and nodded. “Okay - yeah. I will. I miss her too.”

Peter went back to the office - it was a remarkably unproductive day. And a remarkably depressing day. He finally had to admit to himself that Neal was gone for good. And he would probably never come back.

He spun his chair around to face away from the rest of the office and let the tears fall.


	3. Chapter 3

The first year that Neal spent as Julian Drummond felt like an expensive but ill-fitting suit. He hadn’t really taken the time to build up Julian as a real person. The passport and credit cards and the P.O. box were there as a safety net he never thought he’d need to use, not after so long. And he was out of practice - Nick Halden had been like a second skin, but he was as good as dead now. Steve Tabernacle, good man that he was, was still a liar and a thief, not someone Neal was comfortable with anymore. Besides, all of his other aliases were well known to the FBI and Interpol, probably on every watch list from Koenigsberg to Cairo. Or maybe they weren’t - and that was the most depressing thought of all.

But Julian Drummond was someone new - a man without an agenda, with no plans or projects, no goals to accomplish. There was nothing nefarious about him, nothing underhanded or sneaky. He was as straightforward a character as Neal had ever created. 

One of his most under-appreciated qualities was that he wasn’t particularly memorable. He spoke little and what he said was rarely important. Julian wasn’t all that handsome, either. He had unremarkable brown eyes and a scruffy beard that was eventually trimmed into a small goatee. Julian was neither tall nor short, not slim but not well built either. He was just a footloose guy who dressed moderately well and lived out of hotel suites. He had no depth or breadth, no opinion about art or music or culture of any sort. Julian wasn’t particularly smart nor did he seem to be a moron either. He was a man with nothing to distinguish him from anyone else.

The greatest testimony to the success of Julian Drummond, non-entity, came when he was sitting at an outdoor cafe in Amsterdam; Alex Hunter was just two tables over. She looked right at him, but didn’t recognize him, even when he gave her a small smile and a nod. She politely smiled back and looked away. There was no spark of recognition; she didn’t seem to realize who he was. Neal wasn’t even tempted to go over and blow his cover - or whatever you wanted to call it. Alex was part of a life that was over and dead and gone.

The second year was a little easier. 

Julian and his lack of outstanding characteristics were beginning to fit him all too well. He wandered through Europe, collecting visa stamps on his passport the way a little girl collects pretty pony stickers. 

Gaming held his interest often enough that he made something of a career out of it. Neal went back to Monaco on a regular basis for high stakes poker (but this time, no one was interested in having him play on a televised game), and backgammon on occasion. He found the clack of the dice and the movements of the draughts oddly soothing. It was nothing like his days with Keller, when they flamboyantly ran the tables - ultimately facing each other at the final round of the tournament. These games, for all their high wagering, were low-key events.

The money didn’t matter - but then, it never did. The games kept the boredom away. Winning was just a way to keep score.

And no matter where he was, what he was doing, Neal never seemed to stop looking for Peter. He knew that Peter was never going to be there - but he needed to see him, if just one last time - to apologize, to explain. He never meant to be a threat. He hadn’t planned on taking something that he didn’t have a right to. It was just...just that for the first time in a very long time, maybe for the first time in his life, he had felt like he belonged to someone.

No - that wasn’t right - he felt like he belonged somewhere. That the face and the skin and the smile were less important than who he was as a person.

He needed to explain to Peter that he was just so overcome by the moment - the freedom, the opportunity to be part of something greater than himself and his own desires.

_______

It was a day for changes. Hughes had officially retired and Peter was promoted to SAIC for the division. Diana was moving into Peter’s office. A year earlier, Jones had accepted a promotion in DC that fast tracked his career. Peter missed him, but the opportunity had been too good to pass up. 

Diana, eager to move into her new digs, came into the office on Saturday morning to help Peter pack and move the fifteen feet down the hall.

“Where do you want these, boss?” Diana was hefting a pile of legal reference texts. Peter grabbed a few and shoved them haphazardly into an empty bookcase. Diana pushed the rest in.

“Almost done.” They stood shoulder to shoulder, looking out over the almost empty bullpen. El and Christie were chatting. “We’re very lucky, you know.”

Diana nodded. “Yeah, we are. There were times, though…”

“There always will be. Married life shouldn’t be an extended honeymoon – it’s the challenges that make it stronger, make it worthwhile.”

Diana hrumphed at Peter’s philosophical views. 

El must have noticed that there was no activity on the upper deck. She turned and looked at him. “Whenever you get done, we can go for lunch, hon. Or maybe dinner?”

Peter chuckled. “Slave driver.”

Christie blew a kiss at Diana, and she returned it.

“Just a few boxes left.” Diana made for the last file carton, one that was tucked in the corner.

“Ah – I’ll get that – it really should come home with me.” Peter reached for it at the same time as Diana, knocking it out of her hand. A few things spilled out – a small bust of Socrates, a rubber band ball, a few art books, a sketch pad and drawing pencils.

They both stood there, looking at the odd collection that spilled across the carpeting.

“Neal’s stuff.” Diana said, needlessly.

He dropped to his knees to pick everything up. “I just… I just couldn’t bear to toss any of it.”

She joined him on the floor. “I know.”

Peter sighed, “I guess I could have given it to Mozzie.” Not true - he couldn’t bear to give up these tangible links to his vanished friend.

“You’ve seen the little guy?”

“Once or twice. El kept in touch with him, but he’s made it clear that he doesn’t really want to see me.”

Diana put the small statue in the box and handed Peter the lid. “He hasn’t told you or Elizabeth where Neal is?”

“He says he hadn’t heard anything from Neal since he left New York almost three years ago. He has no idea where Neal is.”

“You believe him?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“I can’t believe that Neal’s never shown up on any radar. There hasn’t been a single art theft or forgery or confidence scheme that bears anything like his signature. I guess he learned as much from us as we did from him.”

“Or maybe Neal’s gone straight. Ever consider that, Sherlock?”

Diana looked at him. “You really think it’s possible?”

“There are three possibilities. One - he’s gotten back in the game and is so good that we can’t figure out it’s him, two – he’s gone straight, or three …” Peter didn’t want to utter those words.

“Three, boss?”

“That Neal’s dead.”

Diana was horrified. “No, no, no. I’d never accept that.”

“I agree with you – Neal’s out there, lying low. He doesn’t want to be found.” Peter hefted the box under his arm and gestured for Diana to precede him down the stairs to their waiting spouses. “You just have to accept that.”

“Do you?”

Peter didn’t answer her.


	4. Chapter 4

It was ironic that backgammon was the game that broke his new identity for the first time. But at least he spotted Matthew Keller before Keller saw him. Unlike Neal, the arrogant little shit had done nothing to change his appearance, or maybe he thought that after five years as a fugitive, no one would believe he wouldn’t have at least changed his hair color.

Keller didn’t recognize him until he sat down and began setting up the draughts.

“Well, well, well – Neal Caffrey, as I live and breathe.”

Neal didn’t say anything as he finished with his set up. He sat back, his eyes not leaving Keller’s.

“I _almost_ didn’t recognize you with the brown eyes. And is that a beard, or did you get yourself a merkin?”

“Keller …” Neal wanted to punch the bastard in the teeth.

“Eric Wilburn, if you please.” 

“Why so hostile, _Eric_? You’ve done a splendid job of lying low since your escape. We haven’t crossed paths since New York, when you tried to kill Peter.” Neal set the doubling cube on the bar.

Matthew accepted the doubling, setting it at four. “And how is the good Agent Burke?” He tilted his head around, as if he were scouting out FBI agents.

Neal pretended with all the nonchalance he wasn’t feeling. “Have no clue. My probation was up three years ago. I left all of that behind.” He rolled one of his die to start the game – a five.

“Really?” Keller rolled his die, a two.

Neal went first and moved his draughts. “Don’t be so skeptical. I was done – had no reason to stay in New York.”

“No? You seemed awfully fond of your lawman.” He rolled his dice and made his moves.

Neal looked at the board, searching for vulnerabilities. There were several, depending on how the dice landed. He rolled and moved, trapping one of Keller’s pieces. “Your play is sloppy, Eric.”

“Just testing you. It’s going to be a long match.”

They played several games through the match, neither of them ever gaining full advantage over the other. “Just like old times – right down to the hotel and the game.” 

“Almost, but not quite. You’re a fugitive on a murder conviction. I’m a free man.”

“And you could be a dead man very soon.”

Neal looked up at Keller. “You don’t really think it’s necessary to play the heavy, do you?”

“I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

“You’ve never been stupid. Don’t start now. I have no interest in reporting your whereabouts. That would only make trouble for me.”

“Ahh – so we get to the heart of the matter. You’re really not such a free man.”

Neal shrugged. “There may be people looking for me. If I report your whereabouts, it will make my life a little less easy.” Not really true, but not quite a lie. 

“An anonymous tip would keep your involvement at a minimum.” 

“There really isn’t anyone but me who’d call in a tip on you – anonymous or not. And then you’d tell the authorities who called it in, and then where would I be? There’s no point in killing me to keep your secret. I’m not going to tell anyone, trust me.” He grinned at Keller, shades of the old Caffrey charm. It didn’t really hurt _that_ much.

Keller looked at him, eyes narrowed. 

Neal leaned back. He didn’t trust Keller for a minute and the feeling was mutual. “What can I do to make you trust me?”

“Well, I’ve always been curious about that sweet ass of yours. Tell me, was your FBI agent fucking you? Is that why you left? You couldn’t stand the thought of that big, sweaty body heaving over you, plowing into you, splitting you open. Made it seem too much like your prison days, when the cons would take turns with your ass and you’d close your eyes and dream of sweet, beautiful Kate. Pure, lovely, innocent Kate, who probably wouldn’t let you kiss her if she knew what you did with your mouth while your were locked up. Maybe she found out and that’s why she left you.”

Neal didn’t let himself be goaded - why should he when Keller betrayed his ignorance with every word. “Would fucking me earn your trust? Or would you just strangle me when we’re done and call it an accident?”

“Tell you what – I’ll fuck you and then decide.” He rolled his dice and won the last game of the match. “Or maybe not…it seems that I’m moving on. You’re not.”

Neal got up and nodded to Keller. “Take care of yourself, _Eric_.”

Neal was careful to ensure that he wasn’t followed as went back to his room. It was time to leave Monaco. Unfortunately, Julian’s well trimmed beard would have to go for a while. He shaved and packed, flushing the brown contact lenses down the toilet.

Sitting on a plane bound for Johannesburg, Neal called the FBI tip line and reported the location of Matthew Keller, wanted fugitive. It was not up to him to see that they got him into custody.

_______

“You’re never going to believe this.”

Peter dropped the report he was trying to dissect as Diana burst into his office without knocking.

“What have you got?”

“Not what, who!”

Peter’s heart started to race. “Neal?”

Diana grimaced. “Sorry – no. Matthew Keller. An anonymous call came in three days ago, reporting his whereabouts. Keller was in Monaco, at a backgammon tournament, of all places. The Marshals coordinated with the Monégasque and French police via Interpol. They have him in custody and he’ll be in the U.S. by sundown tonight.”

“Did you say Monaco – backgammon?”

“Yeah – why?”

“When Neal first told me about Keller – you were in DC at the time – he said that they met working the backgammon tables in Monte Carlo. Hmmm…”

“I can find out if there’s any way to trace the call.”

Peter shook his head. “Probably not. But see if you can’t find out who Keller had been playing with the days before he was picked up.” Diana turned to go back to her office. “And liaise with the Marshals’ Service – I’m going to want to interview Mr. Keller before they ship his ass off to prison for the rest of his life.”

Diana grinned. “Already done. Keller’s coming in on military transport - the Marshals aren’t taking any chances. He’s landing at Stewart ANGB around 6:45 tonight. You’ll be able to interview him as soon as he gets off the plane.”

“Thanks, Di.”

“You think Neal is involved in this? Or involved with Keller?”

“Maybe. There’s definitely no love lost between them, though.”

“No, there isn’t.” Diana paused. “What will you do if Keller tells you that he’s been working with Neal?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

When Peter called Elizabeth to tell her that he was going to be late – probably very late – he almost didn’t want to tell her why. But they didn’t lie to each other about these things, ever.

“Matthew Keller was the bastard who had you kidnapped and nearly killed.”

“Yeah, hon. He was.”

“And why do you need to talk with him?” Peter could hear the agitation in El’s voice.

“Because he may know where Neal is.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. They rarely mentioned Neal anymore – there was an unspoken agreement between them not to bring him up, to never mention his name. In a sad sort of way, they had erased him from their lives. The artwork he had given them over the years, a framed photograph of the three of them on a short vacation to the East End, and another of the two of them in tuxedos at a Bureau Commendation Dinner, had disappeared. They were probably on a shelf in the guest room closet.

“Are you sure you want to do this, hon?” 

“I have to, El. If Keller knows...”

“Peter, just take care, please.”

“I will.”

“And don’t get your hopes up.”

“I’ll see you tonight, hon.”

The trip from lower Manhattan to Orange County took about two hours, and they were able to drive directly to the transport hanger to wait. They watched as the massive cargo plane landed and the nose opened up. Matthew Keller, nattily dressed in a dark suit and leg irons, was escorted down the ramp by four U.S. Marshals and herded into the hanger.

“If it isn’t Neal Caffrey’s pet Fed.” Keller greeted them with a sneer. “And who are you, darling.” He leered at Diana.

“Where is he?” Peter wasted no time in pleasantries.

“Caffrey?”

Peter resisted the urge to shove his fist down Keller’s throat. “Yeah, Neal Caffrey.”

“The last I saw him, he was in my bed, bleeding. He was begging for it, you know. Until he starting crying, like a little girl. And then he began to scream. I guess it’s been a long time since you rode that ass.” Keller thrust his hips back and forth in a parody of copulation.

Diana put a restraining hand on Peter’s arm just as he was about to hit Keller. “Don’t, boss.” 

Peter eased back. Keller was lying, that was for certain. He turned to Diana. “Let’s get out of here. This piece of shit isn’t worth the paperwork. We’ll let the Russians deal with him. In prison.”


	5. Chapter 5

Neal wasn’t enjoying himself in Sun City. The casino was too loud – too much like Vegas, with slot machines ringing and flashing, the décor too garish. And there were monkeys everywhere - their chattering and cackling ceased to be charming by the end of Neal’s first week in the vast resort complex. But in the quiet of his hotel room, with only the air conditioner providing a quiet punctuation to his thoughts, Neal knew why he hated this place: because Peter would never find him here. Three years, and he was still looking for Peter in every tall dark-haired man he saw. 

Sometimes, though, in the privacy of the night, Neal didn’t replay all of his failures, culminating in that last, humiliating confession. Sometimes his mind picked up the shining moments – the ones where he worked with Peter like a hand in a glove. They cycled through his brain and he was helpless to stop them. On those nights, when the cinema of his mind played the final reel, he’d fall asleep to the fantasy that they were still friends, that he could just show up at Peter’s door and Peter would wrap his arms around him and welcome him home.

Those fantasies became dreams, and there were long conversations between them, they’d work out all of their problems and they’d be happy. Those were worse than the worst nightmares, though. Neal would wake, feeling like he just wasted three years of his life, that the running was the worst decision he could have made, that had he stayed, waited and talked to Peter, it would have been all right.

Sun City was a disaster for another, altogether unexpected reason. He had ditched the brown contacts for good and didn’t bother with Julian’s beard anymore. Had he not so studiously avoided looking at his whole face in a mirror since he fled New York, he would have noticed that the dark curly hair had grown wings of gray, which turned almost pure white. But he was once again Neal in face, if not in name. 

He wasn’t sure where he wanted to go – it was high summer in South Africa, and someplace cooler and darker beckoned, maybe.

He was sitting in the hotel bar, contemplating his next destination. He could torture himself and go to Scandinavia, all that snow and those long nights would be a decided counterpoint to the heat and dust and endless sunshine of South Africa. 

As usual, he was alone. Neal couldn’t remember the last time he shared a meal with anyone, let alone touched another person. Actually, he could remember the last time he touched someone – and he could still remember her taste, and _his_ taste. He could still feel the echo of the bruise on his arm when he was pulled away. Neal sipped from a glass of inferior Shiraz and tried to banish those memories.

“Neal? Neal Caffrey?” A hand brushed his arm, re-stirring that sense memory.

He knew that voice. He remembered that touch.

He turned. “Sara?”

It was Sara, and she clearly wasn’t tracking him down. He knew her hunting face all too well. “What are you doing here?”

She smiled, grinned actually. “I’m on my honeymoon.” There was no animosity, no catty triumph in that statement. She wasn’t the type to play games.

Neal looked beyond Sara’s shoulder, spotting a tall blond man with bright green eyes and a rather concerned expression on his face. “Introduce me?”

She waved the man over. “Jordan – this is an old friend, Neal Caffrey. Neal – my husband – Jordan Hartmann.”

Neal held out his hand to Sara’s husband. “She says that with such pride.”

Jordan took his hand. “Not with as much pride as when I introduce Sara as my wife. How do you two know each other?” 

Neal looked at Sara – wondering if he should explain. She shrugged at him. “Sara was convinced I had stolen something belonging to one of her company’s clients. A jury of my peers said otherwise.”

Jordan looked at his wife. “Sara?”

“Neal and I sort of patched up our differences, though I have not given up on that Raphael.” She grinned to take just some of the sting out of those words.

Neal just smiled, not giving anything away. “Can I buy you guys a drink? Some champagne to celebrate?”

He ordered a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and shared a glass with them, leaving the rest of it for the newlyweds. When the bartender presented the tab, he unthinkingly signed it “Julian Drummond.” Sara noticed and looked at him. He shook his head and she didn’t say a word.

“Take care of yourself.” He pressed a kiss into Sara’s cheek and shook her husband’s hand. “You are a lucky man.”

Neal checked out of Sun City that night. He’d head back to Paris and decide where he wanted to go from there. He didn’t let himself wonder how long it would take for Sara to call Peter.

_______

The FBI telephone tip line was something of a dead end. The phone number that placed the call was tracked to a cell tower in Nice. That meant nothing, since Monaco was a third smaller than Central Park, and less than ten miles away.

The hotel, eager to cooperate with law enforcement, provided Diana with a list of guests, and the backgammon tournament organizers were equally forthcoming, although they would not give her the names of Keller’s opponents on the day before his arrest. She had no legal way to pressure them into giving up that information; there was no active case against Keller other than the now filled fugitive arrest warrant, and as much as she wanted to find Neal, she had nothing to turn the screws with.

“Sorry, Peter. I tried.”

“Di – it’s okay. You have your own caseload to manage – and an office full as well.” The transition had gone smoothly. Diana was a different type of manager from Peter, but the staff gave her the same loyalty and commitment that they had given to him. 

A few days later, Diana was back in Peter’s office. This time, she was grinning from ear to ear. “I got him!”

Peter looked up, expectantly.

“I ran the list of hotel guests and players against all the U.S. passports that were processed out of Newark and JFK on the weekend that Neal disappeared.”

“And?” Peter couldn’t bear to ask. He couldn’t bear not to ask. 

“Julian Drummond.” She handed him a copy of the passport and flight data, which included a picture of someone that looked remarkably like Neal. “I tracked the passport for the last three years. Drummond has been all over Europe and Asia. He landed in Johannesburg eleven hours after the call was placed to the FBI. Which explains why the location of the call was in Nice – that’s the airport for Monaco. A few calls, and I can get his landing card data from South African immigration.”

“What else have you found out about Julian Drummond?” The name sounded so typically “Neal” – elegant, Anglo-Saxon, but not overly distinctive to make it remarkably memorable. Peter rubbed his sweaty palms against his thighs. 

Diana shook her head. “He seems to be a professional gambler. Plays consistently, regularly wins big, pays his taxes. There are no reports of art thefts, forgeries or other signature crimes during the times and dates when Drummond is playing in a particular city. He has no fixed address, but the IRS sends his refunds to a post office box in Manhattan. If Drummond is Neal – you were right. He’s gone straight, as far as I can tell.”

“What about the P.O. box?” Peter could feel his hands shaking.

“The name on it is Julian Drummond, and it was opened seven years ago. It’s the post office closest to Neal’s old apartment; it would have been in his radius. I went up there this morning, and from what I could see, there wasn’t a whole lot of mail in it, which doesn’t really mean anything.”

“What it means is that Neal had laid plans for an escape seven years ago. He lied to me.” Peter felt like he’d been punched.

“Boss?”

“After we got his parole back, Neal told me that when he tried to leave with Kate, it had felt wrong and that he was done with running. He also told me – and this is true – that he never would tell me an outright lie. And he hadn’t – or so I thought.”

“He could have set that up before the thing with Kate went down. You don’t know that this was afterwards.”

“I bet if you got the date when that box was opened, it would be after Kate was killed.”

“Peter – if Neal was going to run when he was on probation, he would have. He stayed because of you.”

It _was_ typical of Neal to have planned an escape route, even if he never intended to use it. But right now, Peter felt betrayed – that everything that had happened, everything he had said – was a lie.

“Diana, don’t look for Neal any more, please. It’s over. Neal’s gone, he’s never coming back and I’m not going to chase someone that doesn’t want to be found.” Peter shook his head at the irony of that statement.

She looked at Peter, gave him a small, tight smile, and left. There was nothing more to be said.

When Sara called Peter three weeks later, he thanked her for the information about Neal. When she told him that Neal looked like crap, Peter tried to tell himself that there was no reason to be concerned. And yet, he spent about an hour looking at airfare to South Africa.

_______

Winter in Paris was remarkably pleasant. The Christmastime tourists had left and the streets were filled mostly with Parisians out and about on their own business. Although the days were short and the trees bare, it wasn’t bitterly cold. 

Unfortunately, Neal spent most of February in a pleasant suite in a boutique hotel in the Marias, on the Ile St. Louis. It started out as a general malaise – a tiredness he hadn’t been able to shake since before he had been in Monaco – and not even the warm and endless days in South Africa had improved his well-being. The chest cold he picked up during the flight back to Europe lingered and then blossomed into bronchitis. The hotelier was worried enough about the incessant coughing sounds coming from M. Drummond’s room that she summoned a doctor.

Neal refused to go to a hospital for chest x-rays and blood work but took the antibiotics that were prescribed. After more than two weeks of living on hot lemon tea and buttered toast, Neal emerged from his cocoon, weak and thin and lonely. In all his years of travel, his _anneées de pèlerinage_ , he had never felt quite this forlorn, this bereft, this needy.

And for the first time in years he really looked at himself, and was shocked. _When did I get so old?_ The once dark head of curls was nearly all gray now, though still as thick and still as curly. Lines, like deep commas, bracketed the sides of his mouth, and crows’ feet sprung from the corners of his eyes. He knew he had lost weight over the years, but the skeletal thinness was the biggest shock of all.

Neal lingered in Paris. His recovery was painfully slow. The cough never quite disappeared and he was struck with fever at odd times. But Neal made it a point to eat. He was in the gastronomic capital of the world, so that shouldn’t have been a hardship, but he never was able to put on any weight.

The hotelier urged him to go to the doctor – she recommended her own physician, and he was finally frustrated enough to make an appointment. But he didn’t keep it. With springtime, his health seemed to return and he left Paris in early April, heading north again.

Neal couldn’t say what drove him to Tromsø. Maybe it was that he had never been there before, and the allure of something totally new was irresistible. Or maybe it was the Northern Lights. 

When he had been in jail and he dreamed of Europe, there were so many places he wanted to show Kate, all the great museums, the castles with their crown jewels and fabulous architecture and artwork, and the quiet, hidden places too – all of the things he had experienced on his own and had wanted to share with her. But there was one thing he had never done – he had never gone far north enough to see the Aurora Borealis. They had never talked about it – it wasn’t even something Neal could fully explain to himself, but he had wanted to see the Northern Lights for the first time with Kate. He didn’t want to be alone.

But now he had no one to share the experience with – no friends, no partner, no family. He was struck by a morbid thought, though. He wanted to see them once, before he died.

Once he arrived in Tromsø, Neal regretted the trip with a passionate intensity. His cough returned, his head ached and he developed a rash over half his body. The first three nights he was there, it was snowing or overcast, and the hotel was packed with disappointed tourists.

But the fourth night was clear and bitterly cold, and the possibility of viewing was irresistible to Neal. The hotel provided a bus for the tourists eager to see the lights outside of the city limits, and as sick as Neal was, he joined them.

He wasn’t disappointed. The lights appeared first as an undulating sheet of green, then swirls of purple and gold with bursts of brilliant white. Neal was entranced, and stood there for hours until someone urged him to get back on the bus.

He barely remembered anything after that - his mind was on fire and for the first time in years, his hands itched for a paintbrush. He needed to capture the colors that sung in his brain.

But all those plans were for naught. Sometime in the middle of the night, his fever returned.


	6. Chapter 6

Elizabeth wanted to clean their guest room. Her sister was coming to stay for a few weeks and the place had become something of a repository for all of the unwanted junk in their lives. 

“What to you want to do with these?” Peter held up a handful of towels. 

They were in good condition, but didn’t match the color of the bathroom. But still - maybe they could be used for the dog. 

“Put them in the coat closet downstairs - they’ll be fine to dry off Satchmo.”

The question and answer session went on through most of the morning. They filled up a half-dozen bags with clothes for donation. Peter was meticulous about documenting each and every piece on a ledger pad, much to her frustration. By midday, the room was more than presentable - it was ready for occupation. That was until Peter tilted his head towards the closet.

The closet of doom.

“We could just nail it shut, you know.”

She smiled at Peter. “Not on your life!”

That didn’t stop her from flinching when Peter opened the door and quickly stepped back.

A box filled with old hats and scarves and mittens came tumbling down. 

“Tell me again why we have these?” Peter picked up a handful of candy-colored, child-sized mittens.

“My mother thought…”

“That giving us your old childhood snow gear would inspire us to procreate?”

“Accepting it was easier than arguing with her.”

Peter shoved the mittens and hats and scarves into one of the bags and sat down on the bed. He pulled her down with him.

“Do you ever regret not having children?” He nuzzled her neck, right at the spot that made her shiver.

Elizabeth didn’t answer right away.

“It’s not too late.” Peter murmured.

She looked up at him. “Do you want children?” They hadn’t had this discussion in years, but maybe it was time to revisit it. Time was beginning to run short for her.

Peter smiled and shook his head. “If you want kids, I do too - but I don’t want them for me. I won’t feel any more or any less complete with them or without them.”

“No - I don’t.” That was the truth. It wasn’t that having children would mean a huge sacrifice for her (and it would be her career that was sacrificed, no slight on Peter or the FBI. It was simply that he wouldn’t be the one carrying a baby). She just didn’t want children, she wasn’t the maternal type and she liked her life just the way it was. 

She felt Peter sigh and press a kiss against the crown of her head, then nibble her earlobe. As much as this never failed to send an erotic shiver through her, there was still work to do.

“Sex isn’t going to distract me from that closet, Agent Burke.”

“But don’t we deserve a break?” Peter’s clever fingers found her nipple and pinched it sharply.

She hissed in pleasure. “Afterwards, mister. You’ll get everything that’s coming to you after we finish.” She playfully pushed him away and kissed him. “Don’t pout.”

Peter chuckled and tossed the rest of the unwanted winter wear into the bag, and he didn’t bother making any notations on his clipboard.

They pulled out more clothing, including her wedding gown which had been carefully preserved, an old tuxedo that must have belonged to one of their grandfathers. Peter held the suit up against his torso.

“This will never fit me.” Peter fingered the material and looked at the label before consigning it to charity. “Sy Devore.” He lost his smile. The suit had been Neal’s. 

El suddenly remembered the night that Neal had left that suit behind. The three of them had been at the annual Commendation dinner about two weeks before Neal’s parole was over. This time it was held at the Brooklyn Academy of Music and Peter brought Neal home with him to change. The event ran until well after midnight, and Peter was in no shape to drive Neal back to Manhattan and it didn’t take much to convince him not to call for a cab. It was the only time that Neal had spent the night under their roof. Neal had worn his regular suit the next day and left the tux behind. He never took it back.

El held her hand out and Peter gave the suit to her. “I’ll take it over to June’s. It will be nice to see her again.” They had kept in touch and had lunch on a decreasingly regular basis. These days, June was spending more time with her eldest son, who had moved to Florida a year or so ago.

Peter didn’t say anything - his good mood seemed broken. It was completely shattered when he pulled out a pair of framed photographs that had so briefly hung on the staircase wall. He was about to toss them into the trash can when he stopped, closed his eyes and held the pictures close. He sank down to the floor and started to cry.

She sat down on the floor and wrapped her arms around him.

“Why can’t I let him go, El?”

“Because you love him?” 

She pulled one of the pictures out of his hands - it was the one taken by a passing tourist when they were out in the Hamptons the summer before Neal’s parole ended. She traced Neal’s profile with her fingertip. He was looking up at Peter, eyes filled with happiness and love. Not blind adoration, though - there was always respect in his gaze. Peter was looking down at her, but he had an arm wrapped around Neal. The three of them were so comfortable with each other. She could almost hate Neal for wrecking that with his ill-timed declaration. 

But how could she hate someone that had loved Peter? Had changed his life for Peter?

“I know where he is.” 

“What?”

“Diana found the alias he’s been traveling under - Julian Drummond. I got a call from Sara a few weeks ago. She saw Neal when she was on her honeymoon. He signed a credit card slip with the same name.”

“Do you want to go after him? Bring him home?”

Peter shook his head. “No - after all this time, I don’t think he wants to come back.”

“But what do _you_ want?” El held her breath.

“If I had the chance - I’d want to apologize. To get some closure, maybe. I don’t know. Maybe see him one more time, if just to say goodbye.” 

“Maybe you should go. Even if you don’t make things right, you need to see him.”

“No – no. I can’t”

She didn’t press him, but she wondered why at his choice of words. What was he afraid of?

_______

“Mr. Drummond? Wake up, Mr. Drummond.” 

Neal tossed his head away from the loud, lightly accented voice, but it was inescapable. He opened his eyes.

A doctor was leaning over him, and he could make out the sounds of monitors and other devices that belonged in a hospital, not a hotel room.

“Where am I?”

“The University Hospital, Mr. Drummond. The hotel had you brought here when housekeeping found you passed out on the floor in your room.”

Neal had a vague recollection of feeling hot and feverish, and desperately wanting to cool down in the shower. He lifted his left hand and saw that it was fitted with an IV.

“You were dangerously dehydrated.”

“I must have had a relapse; I went out to see the Northern Lights last night. I’ve been sick.”

The doctor, a woman in her early thirties, waved away the aides that were puttering around and closed the curtain, giving them a semblance of privacy.

“You’ve been sick?”

“Hmmm, yeah.” Neal made a face. “I caught a chest cold coming back from South Africa a few months ago. It became bronchitis, and took a few weeks to shake off.”

“Have you had fevers since the coughing stopped.”

Neal reluctantly admitted that the coughing never quite went away, nor did the fevers.

“What about the rash?”

He rubbed a hand lightly against his belly. “That must be from the laundry detergent. It’s new – just since I got to Norway.”

“Have you always been this thin, Mr. Drummond?”

Neal wasn’t sure where this line of questioning was going. “It’s a recent development. I’ve been a bit run down – burning the candle at both ends, I guess.”

The doctor made some notes in Neal’s chart.

He joked, “Am I going to live, doc?” 

She gave him a look that frankly scared him.

“I’m _not_ going to live?”

The doctor sighed. “We took a blood sample, Mr. Drummond. Your white blood cell count is extremely elevated.”

All Neal heard was white blood cell count - and nothing after that. “What? I have AIDS? That’s not possible.” He had been tested repeatedly since he got out of prison - there had never been even a false positive test report.

“No, you’re confused. You don’t have AIDS - if you did, your WBC would be very low. You have leukemia.”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. 

“We’ll need to repeat the blood work, but your symptoms – the fever, the fatigue, the rash, and the weight loss are all very consistent with leukemia.”

“Are you an oncologist?” That was the only question he could think to ask at the moment.

“Yes. I’ll be overseeing your treatment.”

She seemed compassionate. And very young.

“I am sure you have a million questions.”

“I do – but I can’t think of any at the moment.”

She smiled at him. “I or one of my colleagues will be back this afternoon. Get some rest and we’ll talk more in a little bit.”

She left, a small whirlwind of medical efficiency. The nurse came back in and drew enough blood that he wondered if there was any left in his body when she was done.

Neal stared out the window, onto the bleak landscape. It was the middle of April, but Tromsø was north of the Arctic Circle, and spring was months away, if it ever came at all. Everything was different now. After the bout of bronchitis in Paris, he had vaguely considered going back to New York – even if just to touch base with Moz. But he discarded the idea as momentary sentimentality. 

Now, though, all he wanted to do was get on the first plane back to New York. The feeling was vaguely familiar, and it didn’t take a lot of effort to place. It was the same irresistible impulse that drove him to leave nearly four years ago. 

_Admit it, you want to see Peter again. You want to make things right. Even if he just slams the door shut in your face, you need to see him._.

He was able to sleep for a while, waking briefly when a nurse changed the IV bag and his catheter.

The doctor did come back, this time with two of her colleagues in tow. They explained that he had chronic lymphocytic leukemia, and while he was younger than the typical patient, he wasn’t an abnormality. He’d probably had it for a number of years, but typical of the disease, it hadn’t manifested any symptoms. There was no cure, but the prognosis for a five-year survival rate was seventy-five percent. Neal had played against worse odds and won.

There were a number of recommended treatments, mostly involving chemotherapy. The doctors started spouting off names of drugs and side effects and risks and looked at him like he was the one who needed to pick and choose.

He finally had enough. “I’m going home – when will I be well enough to travel?”

They looked at him in collective astonishment. “This hospital can provide very effective treatment, Mr. Drummond.”

“I know, but I want to go home. I want to go back to New York.” There – saying it made the decision feel real, feel right. The self-loathing that drove him away from New York, from everyone he loved, suddenly seemed like a bad dream, something that wouldn’t stand up to the morning light.

They finally seemed to understand. “You’ll need treatment – your cancer has progressed to the point where it has to be treated.”

”I’ll be arranging for treatment in New York. When can I leave?”

“You’ll be able to travel in a few days. Do you have a doctor in America that you want us to send copies of your records to?”

Neal thought for a moment. “I’ll need to call his office first – I’ll have to get his fax number and let him know to expect the records.”

They nodded at him and left.

There was a box with his personal items that the hotel had sent over. Neal was pleased to see that his wallet was intact and his cellphone was there too. There was also a note explaining that the hotel had locked up his passport and he could retrieve it when he got out of the hospital.

He dialed a number that he hoped was still working after all this time. It rang three times before it was picked up.

A sleepy voice answered. “This better be good.”

“Moz?”

“Neal? NEAL!”

“Yeah – it’s me. I’m coming home.”

Neal left the hospital in Tromsø three days after he had gotten his diagnosis. He had copies of all of the medical reports - the same ones faxed to Irwin Mozcone, M.D. 

He was going home, whatever that would bring. For nearly four years, he had blocked that night out of his mind. Now all he could do was replay it over and over again. He tried not to think about his happiness on that final day, when Peter unlocked the tracker for the very last time. It wasn’t the euphoria of physical freedom, but the joy in being able to tell Peter what he felt. He tried not to think about the kiss – Peter’s lips, warm and firm and just on the verge of a response. 

He tried not to think about Elizabeth. The kiss he gave her was a mere butterfly brush, nothing salacious or lustful, just infinitely respectful. He did love her – she was his friend, his ally, his advocate, and she was as much a part of Peter as he was a part of her. Neal never meant to insult her. But he had, he did, and he was still paying for it.

Neal tried not to think about it, but he did now, obsessively. And finally, after so long, turned some of his anger outward. 

He flew directly into JFK, sleeping through most of the trip. Moz was supposed to be meeting him. As he walked down the jet way, a small carry-on with all of his possessions in tow, he was struck with a sense of dread. What if Moz wasn’t there? They had spoken a few times since he had first called, and Moz had seemed happy that he was coming home, but maybe he wasn’t. Maybe Mozzie was done with him. That wouldn’t have surprised him at all.

Neal tried to tell himself it wouldn’t matter if Mozzie wasn’t there – that he’d get a room at the Four Seasons or Pierre and move forward from there.

The line at Immigration and Customs was wearisome and it was all Neal could do to stay upright. He handed his passport, filled almost to the last page, to the agent and waited. The man looked at him, looked at the photograph of Julian Drummond and looked back at him.

“This doesn’t look like you.”

“Pardon?” Neal had spaced out, a moment of micro sleep.

“Your passport photo doesn’t match your face. Would you mind stepping aside?” The agent waved over a pair of security offices. “Please escort this person to the holding area.”

Neal couldn’t believe it. But he didn’t make a fuss – that would only make matters worse. 

The waiting room was a dingy space, and the flickering lights were going to give him a headache. 

“Is there a problem?” Neal figured he’d lead off.

She didn’t say anything, just looked as his passport and then back at him. Neal grinned.

“You really look nothing like your photo.”

Neal sighed. “I’ve been ill. I’m coming home for treatment.”

That seemed to gain some sympathy. “What’s wrong, if you don’t mind me asking.”

He hated saying the word out loud. “Leukemia,” Neal swallowed, and offered up something he probably shouldn’t. “I have my medical records with me, if you need proof.”

The agent was startled. “No – that won’t be necessary.” She looked at him again, and at the photo.

“Welcome home, Mr. Drummond. You’re free to go.” She stamped his passport and handed it back to him.

Neal looked at the picture. It was him, but a much younger, much less careworn him. He wondered if Moz would recognize him.

He by-passed the luggage carousels and took the escalator. There was a small crowd – mostly limo drivers holding up signs – none were for either Julian Drummond or Neal Caffrey. There – tucked between two very aggressive chauffeurs – was a small man, follicularly challenged, wearing thick, black-rimmed glasses. 

_Mozzie_. Neal was almost in tears from relief. He hadn’t abandoned him. But Moz didn’t seem to recognize him until Neal waved off the two limo drivers.

“Neal?”

“Hi.” He grinned at his friend.

Mozzie blinked. “You look … like crap.”

“I know – Immigration didn’t believe I was the person in my passport photo.”

Moz muttered something about the conspiracy of the worldwide bureaucratic powers as he took off his glasses and started to clean them. He was blinking almost non-stop.

“I’m sorry, Moz.”

“For what?”

“For bolting without seeing you first – without saying goodbye.”

Moz shrugged as they walked out of the terminal. “Don’t be. You did what you had to do.”

Neal sighed. “Maybe – but you are my friend, you’ve always been there for me.”

“Bullshit.”

Neal stopped. “What? What do you mean, bullshit?”

“You seem to have conveniently forgotten that I disappeared on you when you were arrested. I never visited you in prison.”

It was Neal’s turn to shrug. “That doesn’t count.”

“Like I said, bullshit. We do what we have to.”

“I know … but still. I’ve missed you.”

Moz smiled and ducked his head. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” 

Neal could see that Moz was pleased. “Where are we going?”

“To the car.”

“Moz…” Some things never changed.

“Do you want to be surprised?”

Neal grinned. It was good to be home.

The car looked suspiciously like June’s Bentley. Moz wrestled Neal’s luggage out of his hand and put it into the trunk. Neal just stood there.

“Moz? What have you done?”

“June’s been away more than not - she needs someone trustworthy to keep an eye on the place. She suggested that the Bentley would be a more comfortable ride than the Jaguar.”

Neal didn’t bother to wipe away the tears. “I don’t deserve this, not from you. Not from June.”

“You yourself, as much as anybody in the entire universe, deserve love and affection.”

Neal gave a watery chuckle. Trust Moz to misquote Siddharta. He slid into the soft luxury, and relaxed. 

The post-rush hour traffic was heavy enough that Moz needed to concentrate on driving and Neal closed his eyes, smiling into the shifting sunlight. He’d been all over the world, but there was nothing quite like New York sunshine.

“What were you doing in Tromsø? Any place that puts slashes through its vowels doesn’t seem like a place that you – whatever your name was – would want to go to.”

“It’s called an “oo” by the way. And the Arctic Circle is very lovely in April. The air is bracing.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“I wanted to see the Northern Lights…don’t know why. Just something I had to do.”

Moz hummed and gave an awkward smile. “Were they beautiful?”

“Yeah. Very.” Neal snuggled down and turned up the heat. He was always cold these days. His eyes drifted shut as they entered the traffic pattern for the 59th Street Bridge.

“Neal?”

“Yeah, Moz?”

“I made appointments for you.”

“Sloane Kettering?”

“Yeah. You’re on the books for two weeks from Monday at eleven am as Neal Caffrey. That's the earliest appointment I could get for you. Hope that’s not a problem.”

“No, Moz. It’s fine. It’s time I was me again.”

“Good, then you’ll have nothing to worry about. I’ve kept up your insurance through the bakery.”

“Thanks, Moz. Thanks.” The words were inadequate, and perhaps unnecessary.

_______

Peter called up the Immigration and Customs Enforcement website. A few mouse clicks and some keystrokes and he’d have access to the U.S. Passport database. Not every country reported passport control information, but enough did that there was a good likelihood that he could locate Neal, or at least the country he was in. He could liaise with Interpol and the Monégasque police and have them get the credit card information for Julian Drummond’s hotel bill. 

He could do a lot of things. But he did none of them.

It wouldn’t be that hard to find Neal – not this time. When he had been on his game, conning and forging and generally making life miserable for museums and galleries all over Europe, Neal had more identities than James Bond. But this time, it seemed that he had just used one – Julian Drummond.

Peter knew why he didn’t want to find Neal. It wasn’t that he was angry at him – not about the escape route he had set up. Honestly, that was typical Neal. He hadn’t used it, after all – at least not until Peter himself had made it impossible to stay.

No, he was afraid. 

Peter thought back to the conversation he had with Diana the day after he found out that Neal had fled. What she said about how Neal looked at him, _“Like the sun rises and sets over your shoulders? Like how you are his sole reason for being? Like how the word of Peter Burke is the word of God?”_

What he was most afraid of was that Neal had outgrown his affection, had come to his senses. 

Had realized he never really loved him after all. 

It all felt too dog in the mangerish. He blanked the screen and went back to work.


	7. Chapter 7

Clinton Jones came home to New York every six weeks, like clockwork. Saturday dinner with his folks, church and brunch with his grandma, a brief stop to see his little cousins, and then back on a train to Washington. That was the agreement he had reached with his family when he told them he wanted to take the promotion in D.C.

Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter were also mandatory. The Fourth of July got a pass because he lived in Washington and the family came to see _him_ on the nation’s birthday. Or more precisely, they took over his apartment in Alexandria and let him escort them to the big celebration on the Mall.

But something was going on. During this visit, his mother looked at him and bit her lip – as if she was about to cry. His father didn’t look too good - pale was never a good color for an African-American. 

Saturday night, instead of watching the ball game, his father handed him a beer and told him they had to talk. That rarely meant anything good.

“Leukemia?” Clinton could barely get the word out.

“Yeah. Found out about four weeks ago.”

“How long have you got?” He put the bottle down on the table, carefully adjusting it on the coaster. His father wasn’t the sentimental type, and wouldn’t appreciate it if his son got all emotional.

“Prognosis is good. About a 75% survival rate over five years. I’ll need chemo though.”

Clinton nodded. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Son?”

“Yeah, Dad?”

“There’s something I’d like to ask you. Ask of you.”

“Anything.” Clinton let out a small laugh. “Whatever you want.”

His father gave him a weak smile. “Don’t make promises like that.”

Clinton grinned back. “What do you want?” This was family, he’d do anything.

His father’s face fell into serious lines. “I’d like you to come home. For good. Come back to New York.”

“Dad…”

“Wait, Clinton – listen to me. I know D.C. was a big opportunity for you – and I’ll understand if you can’t. But the chemo’s going to knock the shit out me. Just knowing you’re nearby will be a big help. I don’t expect you to move back here…” His father gestured – indicating the family home. “But it would, well … be a good thing to have you nearby.” To Clinton’s shock, his father - the strong steady presence in his life - started to cry

Clinton was torn for just a moment. There was an opportunity for him in the Justice Department – but he’d been dithering over it. The thought of becoming a government lawyer had its appeal. But it meant being chained to a desk, which wouldn’t be such a change from what he was doing now, if he were honest with himself. Lately, the memories of the hours spent in the surveillance van were taking on a rosy glow.

“You’re awfully quiet, son.” His father wiped his eyes, probably a little embarrassed at the show of emotion.

“I’ve got a lot to think about.” _Not really._

“Any chance your old boss would take you back?”

“That’s what I’m thinking about.” Clinton smiled. The thought of working for Peter again was enticing. “When’s your next appointment?”

“Monday morning, at Sloane Kettering. They are going to put in the port.”

“Port?”

His father patted the right side of his chest. “It’s where the chemo is delivered. Takes about an hour to put in.”

“I’ll be there with you.” He didn’t think about the caseload on his desk, or the grand jury testimony he needed to prepare for. Nothing was more important than this.

_______

Neal settled back into the fourth floor apartment with remarkable and almost frightening ease. Thomas Wolfe was wrong, apparently. _You can go home again._

Even Byron’s collection of suits was still hanging in the closet, and June had left him a note saying, among other things, that they were still his, if he wanted them. 

They’d all be too big on him now. The hats, though…

As Julian Drummond, he never let himself wear a hat. It had been important to cleanly and clearly distinguish that person from Neal. Julian had been an unremarkable nonentity – the opposite of Neal Caffrey and any of his other peacock personas. But he’d missed those hats in a way he didn’t allow himself to miss anything, anyone, else.

He pulled down a hat box and found the gray straw trilby. Perfect for a late afternoon in early May.

He shrugged into a jacket that was too big and probably too heavy for the weather, dropped the hat on his head and went for a walk.

Without conscious effort, his feet took him to the subway station - he was on the Downtown platform before he realized it. The train was filled with late Saturday afternoon revelers heading for the bars and clubs. It was funny, but Neal actually thought he recognized a few of the faces. Not likely, but they were the familiar, comfortable New Yorkers, disdainful, isolated, uncaring about the passenger sitting next to him – but still strangely compassionate. Neal watched as a middle-aged construction worker tossed his beer away and helped a tiny old woman who was struggling to get her grocery cart out of the subway car.

Neal fought against sleep as the subway’s once-again familiar rhythms soothed him. Despite the odd moments of beneficent connection between the strong and the weak, this was still New York and sleeping on the subway was a sure way to get hurt.

He changed trains at Penn Station, another familiar routine, for the subway to Brooklyn. He tried not to think about where he was going, or what he was going to say when he got there. Was he really ready for this confrontation?

It turned out that there was nothing to say. He rang the doorbell, heard Satchmo bark but no one answered the door. Neal waited another minute, but no one came. Intensely relieved and immensely disappointed, he turned around and went back to the subway. He was home and shivering under a blanket on the couch within the hour.

_______

Peter was out in the back yard, finishing off the post-winter clean up. It was something he should have done a few weeks ago, but it had rained almost every free weekend he had. He heard Satch barking. He was wrapped up in pulling down the creeper vines that had taken over the back fence last year and it took a minute or two to get free. 

By the time he got to the front door, Satchmo had settled down again, gnawing at a rawhide bone - so whatever had disturbed him was gone. It could have been the mailman, though. He opened the inside door, expecting to see a pile of mail on the floor of the vestibule, but there was nothing there. 

His gut told him something was going on - something wasn’t right. Peter opened the front door and looked up and down the street. There was no one outside his house. In fact, the only person he saw was an old man in hat and a too-heavy, too-big coat slowly walking up the block. There was something familiar about the man’s gait, something nudged at the back of his brain. He almost had it…

“Hon - who was at the door?” El poked her head out of their bathroom, her hair wrapped in a towel. “I was just getting out of the shower when I heard the bell ring.”

“Don’t think it was anyone important. They didn’t hang around.” 

Peter looked up the block again, but the old man was gone - probably into the subway.

He closed the door and went back to the yard work.

_______

“You don’t have to come with me.” 

Moz watched Neal fuss a little with his appearance. 

“It would be my pleasure to drive you to the doctor.” It would. There was always something exciting about driving through Manhattan during a weekday.

“Moz...” Neal turned around to face his him. “When you were in the hospital, you went through bottles of antibacterial gel.”

“More than twenty percent of all surgical patients get post-operative, hospital-caused infection. I was just taking appropriate precautions.”

Neal laughed. “You bathed in the stuff, Moz.”

“Neal – this is important. You shouldn’t be alone.” 

Moz tried not to flinch when Neal dropped a hand on his shoulder. “You’re germaphobic.” 

He adopted an exaggerated version of an upper-class matron. “I can overcome my fears for the sake of friendship. And cancer’s not contagious.”

Neal’s gratitude was almost unbearable. “Thank you, Moz.”

He wiped his glasses. “The Jag or the Bentley?”

“How about a car service? Easier than trying to park in midtown.”

Moz swallowed his disappointment. Neal was right.

The outpatient facility where Neal had his appointment was pleasant, the waiting room comfortable, if a little crowded. But he got the fidgets about three minutes after they arrived. 

“Mozzie.”

He was scratching his neck, certain that he was getting a bad case of hives. Or something worse.

“Moz.”

Now his legs were tingling. And his scar was beginning to ache.

“Moz!”

He finally turned to Neal, balling his hands into fists to keep from rubbing, picking or scratching at any of the imaginary ailments.

“What?” His right eyelid was twitching. Maybe he was having a stroke.

“Go, Moz. Please. You’re making both of us crazy.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry, man. I really am.”

Neal brushed his fingers against the back of his hand, gently caressing the rings. “It’s all right. I understand.”

“I’ll meet you outside, okay?”

“There’s a coffee shop on the corner – how about there?”

“Neal… You sure it’s okay?”

“Moz, really – I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t stop twitching until he got out of the elevator and spotted a very familiar face going into the other car. Then a completely different sort of twitching started.

_______

Neal finally relaxed when Moz left. He had known that his friend wouldn’t be able to go the distance, and he couldn’t hold that against him. It was the same as when he was in prison. Everyone had his limitations.

The waiting room door opened and an African-American couple came in. The man, tall and well past middle-aged, sat down next to him while the woman went to the receptionist’s window. Neal smiled at him, recognizing a fellow cancer patient.

“How are you doing?” The man had a deep, pleasant voice. 

Neal shrugged. “Okay, I guess.” 

“First visit?”

“Yeah – yours?” 

“No – here for a small procedure, before the chemo starts.”

“Procedure?”

“Yeah – a port.” He gestured at his chest, below his collar bone. “For the chemo.”

“Oh.” Neal had read about those. 

They were quiet for a few moments. “How long have you known?” 

Neal didn’t mind the man’s questions. There was always comfort to be taken from fellow travelers. “About four weeks. I was in Europe when I got sick. You?”

“Just about the same. Went in for a routine physical, had some blood work and next thing I knew...”

“Marcus – you’re not bothering this young man are you?”

Neal turned to see a woman smiling down at them. The man, Marcus apparently, grinned back. This was probably an old routine. “Felicity – my wife, this is...?”

He stood up. Ingrained manners were too hard to break. “Neal, Neal Caffrey. And surely, Felicity is your daughter, not your wife?” A little harmless flirtation.

The three of them laughed, and as Felicity sat down on the other side of her husband, Neal’s phone buzzed with an incoming text. He ignored it.

They chatted for a bit, and Felicity made a comment about her missing son. “He was getting a parking space – but I think he must have had to go back to D.C. to find one.”

“D.C.?” 

“Our son works for the F.B.I. in their headquarters. He said that following in the old man’s footsteps was too boring.” 

_F.B.I.?_ Neal swallowed. “What do you do, Marcus?”

“I was a lawyer – then a judge – now, I teach at Fordham.”

“A judge? State or Federal?”

“New York State.”

“Appellate Division?”

“I wish.” Marcus chuckled. “I served on the State Supreme Court bench for twenty years. But you ask with such interest. Are you a lawyer, Mr. Caffrey?”

“Neal – please. No, not a lawyer.”

Marcus looked at him sharply, and then grinned. “You’re not a cop – that I can see, so that means you must have another reason for being quite so interested.”

Neal grinned back. “I did, at one time, take a very professional interest in the opinions of the judiciary.”

“He most certainly did.”

Neal instantly recognized the voice behind him.

“Neal Caffrey – I don’t believe it.”

“Clinton, you know this man?” Felicity asked.

Neal stood up – he was sort of helpless at this point. Seeing Clinton, who he had never stopped thinking of as a friend, wrecked him a little.

“Dad, Mom – this is Neal Caffrey - _the_ Neal Caffrey.”

“Oh my goodness – you’re that young man Clinton used to talk about all the time. The con artist - the one who was such a big help in the Bureau.”

Neal blinked, hoping he wouldn’t embarrass himself with tears.

“What are you doing here, Neal?” There was a slightly hostile note in Jones’ voice.

Marcus intervened. “Don’t be rude, son. I think it would be obvious to a man of your deductive talents.”

The sudden comprehension in Clinton’s eyes was painful to see. “You’re sick?”

Neal nodded. “Yeah. Leukemia.” It still hurt to say it.

“Man – I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize – it’s not your fault.”

“Yeah – but ...”

The moment descended into awkwardness.

“You look like shit, man.” He gestured to his head – obviously pointing out Neal’s shock of grey hair under his hat.

“Clinton!” Both of Jones’ parents were outraged.

Neal smiled. “It’s okay – I find it hard to take in, too.” His face turned serious. “How have you been? How is everyone at the office?” _How is Peter? Have you all forgotten me?_

“I guess you’ve really been out of touch. I took a promotion to D.C. headquarters about two years ago.”

“But he’s coming back to New York.” Clinton’s mother placed a warning hand on her son’s arm.

“I’m working on that, Mom.”

A nurse came out and called for the next patient. “Neal Caffrey?” He was never so grateful to have to go see a doctor.

Neal turned to Clinton’s parents. “Good luck to you.” He looked at his erstwhile colleague. “Good to see you.” Neal summoned a smile. It was good to see him. He didn’t allow himself to think about what Clinton was going to do with this information.

“Yeah, good to see you too, Neal.” His smile was tinged with a small amount of irony, but there was nothing ironic about his handshake.

Sitting in the examination room, his phone buzzed again, reminding him about the unread message. It was a text from Mozzie. “One of the Suits is on his way up. You may want to duck.” _Too late._

Perhaps the most difficult moment with the doctor was explaining why his medical records were for Julian Drummond.

“I was traveling under an assumed name.”

The doctor pressed for an explanation. 

“I really can’t say. If you know what I mean.” He winked. Never let it be said that Neal Caffrey had lost his social engineering skills.

“Ah...okay. You tell, then you’d have to kill me. Right?” The doctor gave a short, nervous laugh.

Neal gave him the full Caffrey. “Something like that.”

They went over his records, his symptoms, the blood work. Neal had to get another set done – he was beginning to feel like a vampire’s victim. The doctor was frank about his prognosis.

“CLL isn’t curable. But the odds are in your favor for a five-year survival rate. If the chemo works, you could very well live for ten, fifteen years – maybe longer.”

Neal was cold – chilled to the bone. “And if the chemo doesn’t work?”

“We’ll need to explore other options. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

He shook his head. “No, I was an only child.”

The doctor frowned. “Hmmm, then we’d have to go to the database for a match.”

“A match?”

“A bone marrow match – but don’t worry about that now. The cancer you have is generally very responsive to chemotherapy. We won’t cross that bridge until we have to.”

Neal bit his lip – he didn’t like the idea of going in without a backup plan.

The doctor started talking about nutrition and dental care and hair loss.

“I’m going to...?” He brushed a hand through his locks.

“Yes – that is the most common side effect. The goal of the chemo is to kill off fast growing cells, which includes your body hair, your facial hair and the hair on your head. But once your chemo’s done – it will grow back quickly. Probably thicker than ever. I’ve seen patients who started chemo almost completely bald end up re-growing a full head of hair.”

Neal nodded. He really didn’t have much choice. 

They talked a bit more, and like Clinton’s father, he was going to have to have a port installed.

The doctor gave him scripts for the blood work and a full body CAT scan, and recommended nutritional counseling.

“Rest and good nutrition are very important, Mr. Caffrey. A glass of red wine every once in a while wouldn’t hurt, either.”

Neal laughed bitterly to himself. That would never be a problem. “Thank you, doctor.”

As promised, Mozzie was waiting for him in the corner coffee shop.

“You got my message?”

“Not until it was too late. But it doesn’t matter.”

“No? I thought you’d be keeping a low profile.”

Neal dropped a small bombshell. “I went to see Peter on Saturday.”

Mozzie gave him the turtle look. “And?”

“And … nothing. There was no one home. Somehow, just letting myself in and waiting seemed, well, a little wrong.”

Mozzie grimaced. “I can’t believe it. You really want to see him, after everything?”

“I had to, Moz.”

“Have your feelings changed?”

Neal shook his head and took an inordinate interest in the advertising on the paper placemat.

“You’re letting yourself in for a world of pain, Neal. Dare I tell you – that’s not something you need in your life right now?”

“I know, Moz. I know.”

“There is no remedy for love but to love more.”

“You’re reduced to quoting Mencken, now?”

“Would you prefer ‘For one human being to love another; that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation’ ?” 

“Rilke? That’s just pretentious.”

“Then what do you want from me? My blessing?”

“No, Moz. Just your friendship.”

“That, _mon frère_ , you’ll always have.”


	8. Chapter 8

His father’s procedure took a little more than an hour. But waiting with his mother, it felt like an eternity. At least she had something to focus on other that his possible relocation back to New York and his father’s health.

“I thought you said that Neal Caffrey was a young man.”

“He was – he is. The last time I saw him, he was a good twenty pounds heavier and his hair was dark brown.” Clinton was still shocked by the changes in Neal. “He was as fit as anyone – he could run me into the ground.”

His mother squeezed his hand. “He must be very sick.”

“Yeah.”

They didn’t say anything more. His mom flipped through a magazine and he obsessively kept checking his Blackberry.

A nurse finally came out and told them they could go see his father, who was awake and getting dressed.

“Dad, I’m going to go get the car. Take your time and meet me downstairs, okay?”

Clinton dropped his parents off and drove back into Manhattan, this time heading downtown, to Federal Plaza. 

It felt like coming home – like he belonged here. Even the parking attendant recognized him.

His stomach was filled with butterflies going up to the twenty-first floor, and he couldn’t understand why he was so nervous.

The office was a little different. A lot of people he didn’t recognize. He expected that when he heard about Peter’s promotion. And Diana’s.

“Can I help you?” The guard stationed at the door was polite, but did his job. Clinton flashed his badge.

“I’m here to see Agent Burke, is he in?”

Peter must have noticed him, because he called out his name and came bounding down the stairs, “What are you doing here?” Diana was a step behind him.

Clinton found himself wrapped in a manly hug, and his nervousness just evaporated.

Diana hugged him too. “What brings you to this humble backwater? Bored with D.C.?” That had been a joke between them when he accepted the transfer.

“Hmm – can we talk in your office?”

Peter nodded. “Sure. Is everything all right?”

Clinton gestured with his head. Most of the agents were doing their best not to be obvious about their eavesdropping. 

Once inside Peter’s office, he flopped down on a chair. 

Diana, perched on the edge of Peter’s desk, started the interrogation. “What gives?”

He decided not to dance around the matter. “Do you have a slot opened on your team?”

Peter gave him a puzzled look. “I thought you’d take the DOJ position.”

“You know about that?”

“Of course – they called me as part of the background check.”

“Me, too.” Diana chimed in. “I told them what an ass you are.” 

He scrubbed at his face. It had been a long morning. “I’ve been on the fence about that – but I really need to move back to New York - quickly. My father is sick.”

“Clinton – I’m so sorry.”

“It’s cancer – and he asked me to come home. I thought I’d see if you’d take me back before I put in for a transfer to any department in the city that had an opening.” He tried not to look at either Peter or Diana - he didn’t want them to see how desperate he was, then ruined it by saying “I’ll even take surveillance van duty.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary.” Peter handed him a file. He was grinning.

It was an approved staffing requisition for a senior agent to lead a new task force on corruption in the banking industry. “My favorite word has always been serendipity.”

“You can’t have my office, though.” Diana kicked him with the pointed toe of her boot. They always had a terrific working relationship, and it was something he missed.

“Don’t care about that – I’d take a desk in the storage room if it gets me back here.” Clinton grinned, and then felt a little ashamed of his happiness and good fortune, coming on the back of his father’s illness.

“That won’t be necessary – we’ll make arrangements for you.” 

That was another thing he missed – Peter’s utter confidence. 

Diana took off – she had a staff meeting to run. He chatted with Peter about the relocation and finally decided to tell him. About Neal.

Maybe this was why he was so nervous. He never understood why Caffrey had taken off the way he had, and he knew how badly Peter was hurt, but he never pried.

“I saw Neal today.” There – a simple declarative statement. No embellishments. 

Peter’s face lost all color.

“Where?”

“At the doctor’s office. The oncologist.”

Peter picked up his coffee mug and Clinton could see that his hands were shaking. “He’s sick?”

“Yeah. He looks old, worn out. His hair’s gone gray, he’s lost a lot of weight. If it wasn’t for that hat - the gray one he used to wear, I may not have recognized him.”

“Did he see you?”

“He was chatting with my parents when I came in. We talked for a little bit, before he was called in to see the doctor. He was still the same, though. Charming, disarming – had my mom and dad eating out of his hand.” Clinton smiled at the memory.

“They called him in as ‘Neal Caffrey’?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I’m just surprised.”

Clinton got up – he was anxious to get home and tell his parents that he had a place back in the White Collar division. “I’ve got to go – can we talk tomorrow?”

“Yeah, sure.” Peter was distracted. “I’ll contact the Administrator’s office and start the request for your transfer.”

“Peter – thank you.”

“No – thank you.”

_______

Peter watched Jones leave. It was going to be good having him back. He had been thinking about reaching out and asking if he’d like to come back to New York, but then the DOJ request had come in. Peter had figured that Clinton would take that job like a shot.

But the moment that he was out of view, Clinton Jones was out of Peter’s mind. There was nothing else he could think about now except Neal. 

In New York. 

Sick. 

Cancer. 

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. 

He pushed away from his desk and stood up. Being still was unbearable.

He paced the length of his office. Back and forth, like some caged beast.

Peter was seized with the need to be someplace, any place else. Any place else where Neal Caffrey wasn’t sick, wasn’t dying. Any place where the reality of Neal Caffrey, cancer victim, was somehow less real than Julian Drummond, professional gambler and world traveler. 

No that wasn’t right. He had to find Neal – he had to find him now. 

Diana’s staff meeting was breaking up and he caught her before she went back to her office.

“I’m heading out. I’ve got to go.”

“Everything all right?”

“Yes - no. Nothing I can talk about now. I’ll call you later, okay?” Peter knew he should have told Diana that Clinton saw Neal - but he just couldn’t talk about it now.

“Okay - just take it easy.”

“Yeah - yeah.” He was down the stairs and out the door before his words stopped echoing.

Peter pulled out of the parking garage and didn’t really think about where he was going. But the problem with driving in New York City was that it was hard to just drive aimlessly. He didn’t want to head home. El was meeting with a client in Saratoga, and wouldn’t be home until late tonight. 

He didn’t want to call her and tell her the news, just as he didn’t want to say anything to Diana. Saying the words would make it all too real. 

_Neal, cancer_.

But he did - he had to. She was as much a part of him as his skin.

When he told her, he heard the stunned catch in her breath - the momentary loss of equilibrium. “Find him, honey. Bring him home. Please.”

Not knowing where to go Peter just drove, and eventually, merged onto a once-familiar route. It had been a long time since he’d taken the West Side Highway north during rush hour. 

And then he realized that it had been three years and nine months since he’d done this. 

His question to the prison warden and the director of the U.S. Marshals Service came back to haunt him. _Why would Neal run with three months left on a four year sentence?_. How ironic. Neal comes back into his life three months shy of the fourth anniversary of his disappearance.

The traffic began to annoy him and he pulled off at 52nd Street. He needed someplace quiet to think and headed for the rooftop parking at the cruise ship terminals, flashing his badge at the parking attendant.

Peter pulled into a spot at the far end of the roof. He got out and looked out over the Hudson, at the boats and ships and barges making their way up and down the waterway, as if nothing had changed. 

He couldn’t believe that Neal was sick, deathly sick. That wasn’t possible. Neal Caffrey - _his Neal_ \- the man who dodged bullets, fearlessly climbed up the sides of buildings and swung through windows on banners of silk couldn’t possibly be dying. The Neal he knew, the Neal he reluctantly admitted that he loved, was immortal, perfect. Peter closed his eyes and called up image after forbidden image. Neal wearing nothing more than a sweaty beater and a pair of tight black pants, Neal in an immaculately tailored tuxedo, Neal in a vintage suit and hat walking down the stairs, grinning at him as if he were a waiting prom date.

Peter thought of all the times that he told himself that there was no attraction there, all the times he repressed those fleeting thoughts of Neal that had nothing to do with work or his crazy stunts or all the times that he had thought Neal had betrayed him, them - their work, their friendship. The bond that had formed so instantaneously. How could he have denied that? He cursed the waste of time, the waste of opportunity, the utter futility of doing just what’s right, instead to taking care of his soul.

The day had turned overcast, and he could see a front moving in from the west. A stiff breeze was creating whitecaps on the river.

Then things started to fall into place. The old man in the hat walking away from the house. What did Jones say? _“He looks old, worn out. His hair’s gone gray; he’s lost a lot of weight. If it wasn’t for that hat - the gray one he used to wear, I may not have recognized him.”_

The hat.

 _“He took nothing with him.”_ June’s comment when he had first discovered Neal had left. _“Everything I had given him is still here..._

Everything - she had pulled him into that vast closet and shown him that Neal hadn’t even taken a hat. 

He knew where Neal was. 

He wrestled with the rush hour traffic, urgently needed to get to his destination. Completely ignoring the other drivers on the road, he cut across three lanes and got off at the 79th Street exit. The front moving in had darkened the late afternoon sky and as he pulled up to June’s Riverside Drive mansion, Peter could see that the lights were on in the fourth floor apartment.

He parked, but sat there for a few minutes. Something in him eased. Peter could relax for the first time in years. Neal was home.

Sitting there, watching the silhouettes moving in the brightly lit apartment, Peter was struck by another thought. Neal had come to him, Neal wanted to see him. That had to mean something. Maybe he wouldn’t slam the door shut in his face.


	9. Chapter 9

Neal added more cream and another few pats of butter, ignoring Mozzie’s look of disgust. 

“That’s just gross.”

“What?”

“What you’re doing to that oatmeal.”

He tasted the mixture and added a little salt. “I like my oatmeal savory.”

“No, what you are enjoying is a conveyance for milk …”

“Cream.”

“Cream, which is even worse, and butter. The oatmeal is almost irrelevant.”

“No – it’s not. It’s good – it makes me happy. And the doctor was emphatic about gaining weight.”

Mozzie hmmm’d – agreeing but still disapproving. “Would you like me to recommend a wine to go with your gruel?”

“I actually think a white Zin would go nicely. But I’d prefer hot chocolate – there’s still a canister of Ghiradelli in the cabinet.”

Moz got up without Neal’s prompting and started making it for him.

Neal enjoyed Mozzie’s grumbling a little too much. “Use the whole milk, please – not the soy that you insist on.”

“So, you don’t care if I get violently ill preparing delights from your childhood gastronomic memories?”

“You’re not drinking the stuff, Moz, and even if you drip it on yourself, you’re not going to get ill.”

Despite his annoyance, Mozzie carefully placed a steaming cup of hot chocolate on the dining table. “Be careful – don’t burn your mouth.”

“Thanks, Moz.” 

The cocoa was good. So was the oatmeal. He was surprised that he had this much of an appetite. 

The sounds of a pipe organ, high trilling notes, were playing softly from the stereo and Neal tapped the remote, turning up the volume.

_In paradisum … deducant te angeli, … in tuo adventu … suscipiant te martyres, …et perducant te in civitatem sanctam … Jerusalem … Jerusalem … Jerusalem._

Neal closed his eyes and smiled. Moz interrupted his rapture.

“Don’t you think it’s a little premature for this particular tune?”

“Hmmm, what?” Neal was still distracted by the sweetness of the choir.

“A requiem mass, my friend? You’re not dead yet, you know.”

“Oh…I hadn’t even realized. I’m looking for something that would catch the essence of the Northern Lights. I think this is the closest I’m going to get.”

Moz tilted his head to the once familiar easel. “I could get you a canvas and a set of paints, if you want. You could paint them.”

He was on the fence about that. One of the other things he had to discard, as Julian Drummond, was art. But unlike the hats – he wasn’t quite ready to take up a brush and pallet yet. The inspiration that struck him in Tromsø was now out of reach. But maybe…

“I don’t think I’m up to oils. Maybe a watercolors?”

“Fine – but only if you turn this music off. It’s making me depressed.”

Neal pressed the pause button – he had forgotten how tetchy Moz got around sacred music.

“Thanks.”

Neal finished his oatmeal and cocoa – and he had to agree that his gustatory pleasures were reverting to childhood. He wouldn’t be surprised if he started craving grilled cheese and tomato soup. He was about to take the plate and cup to the sink when Moz grabbed them out of his hand.

“You don’t have to wait on me hand and foot. I’m just a little worn down – I can do a few dishes without collapsing.”

“Neal – please. Just let me.”

Frankly, he didn’t have the energy to argue. 

As Moz finished washing up, there was a knock on the door. 

Moz looked at him. “Expecting anyone?”

Neal thought for a moment, and his face turned grim. “Yeah. Peter.”

_______

No matter how much things had changed, they still remained the same. June’s housekeeper still answered the door with a funny look on her face. 

Peter took a deep breath. “Is Neal here?” 

Marta actually grinned at him. “Mr. Neal and Mr. Mozzie are home. Go right up.”

The three flights felt almost like he was climbing a mountain. The familiar door was shut but at the sound of those very familiar voices, his stomach lurched. 

He knocked. And waited. And waited. The voices inside were a bit louder, but the words still indistinct. Just as he was about to knock again, the door opened.

“Well, hello Suit. Trust you to turn up like a bad penny.”

Peter gave him a small tight smile. “You would know all about bad pennies, wouldn’t you?”

And from the depths of the room. “Moz…please.”

“He wants to see you – against advice of counsel.” Moz stepped aside, letting him into the apartment.

Neal was standing by the terrace doors.

“Neal?” Peter said. Moz stood behind him, as if he was about to bodily throw him out of the apartment.

“Moz – go. I’ll call if I need you.”

He heard the door shut, but Peter couldn’t tear his eyes away from Neal. Dressed in a blue cashmere turtleneck sweater and black dress pants, he looked very elegant and very ill. Peter swallowed – his mouth dry. He couldn’t think of anything to say.

“That was quick – I guess Clinton stopped by the office and told you he saw me.”

Peter would have thought that Neal was completely unaffected by this reunion – except that he was toying with something on the table – a spoon, and was having difficulty meeting his eyes.

“Funny how you and his father share a doctor.”

“Hmmm, yeah. Small world.” Neal finally looked up. “Did you call the doctors’ office and threaten them with a warrant to give up my address? Or did you try June’s just on a hunch? Your gut tell you I was here?”

Peter wanted to smile. “Why do you persist on underestimating me? I caught you … how many times?”

Neal shrugged. “I lost track.”

“That many. I figured it out all by myself.”

Neal didn’t reply and Peter still couldn’t figure out what to say.

But he had to say something. “Neal…”

“Peter – if you say I look like crap, I will …”

He didn’t think that at all. “No, Neal - never.”

Neal smiled – but it was sour, twisted. “Yeah, I do.” He stopped playing with the spoon. “So.”

“So.”

“Here we are.”

“Why do I feel like I’m in the middle of a Harold Pinter play?” Neal looked at him and Peter was stunned at the intensity of his gaze. The words he couldn’t find suddenly began to tumble onto his tongue. “Why did you run away? Couldn’t you have waited – waited for me to -- ”

Neal exploded. “To what, Peter? To apologize? To say, ‘Yes Neal – I love you too?’ ” Neal shook his head violently. “No, Peter – that was never going to happen. I screwed up. I thought I saw something in you that clearly wasn’t there.” Neal grabbed a heavy jacket off the back of a chair and went out onto the terrace.

Peter followed, relentless in his sudden fury. “Don’t you run away from me again. Don’t you dare. Do you have any idea what I went through? The years of worrying about you? The years of telling myself to forget? That you tell me you love me and then you disappear like you never were? Were your feeling so shallow? How dare you throw this back at me? How dare you, Neal!”

Neal looked at him like he was some sort of insect, or maybe something that he’d scrape off the bottom of his shoe.

“You’ve got some nerve, Peter.” Neal’s tone was quiet, but deadly serious. “And a very convenient memory. You all but threw me out of your home – I kissed Elizabeth. I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have. But after what you said to me…how could you think I could stay? How could I look you in the eye and call you friend when you certainly didn’t respect me, didn’t think of me as anything more than a dirty criminal, out to steal something I would never be able to have honestly. That you thought – after everything, I was scamming you. That everything I had just said, everything we had worked for was just another lie.” Neal sank down onto one of the loungers and buried his face in his hands.

Peter was lost. Utterly, completely lost. The anger that drove his earlier words was lost in the gaping hole of his memory.

“What – nothing to say, Agent Burke?” Neal shivered in the cool , damp breeze. 

“Neal – come inside. It’s about to rain.”

“Why do you care.” The bitterness in Neal’s voice was shocking.

“Because you’re my friend. Because … because, I love you.” It was surprisingly easy to say.

But apparently not to hear. Neal started laughing – a harsh, angry cackle that dissolved into a deep, hacking cough. Peter went to him, to help him up and bring him inside. Neal waved him off violently. “Don’t touch me, you bastard.”

To his relief, Neal went back inside. Still shivering, he left his jacket on and huddled on the couch. Peter picked up a blanket and draped it around him.

“Neal, you probably won’t believe me – but I don’t remember what I said to you. I blocked it out almost before you walked away.”

“You’re right, Peter. I don’t believe you. You have a very nasty habit of accusing me of terrible things without reason. This was just the last straw. I may make all the wrong choices, I may have no impulse control, and I am clearly a fool for love. But I’m not a masochist.”

“I don’t remember, Neal. I don’t remember.” Peter sat down across from him. “You have to believe me, please.” He begged again.

“No, Peter. I don’t.”

“But you wanted to see me. Why - if you’re still so angry.”

Neal stared at him. “Why do you say that?”

“You came to the house on Saturday. I saw you walk away. I didn’t realize it was you, though. I would have come after you if I did.”

“You’re imagining things, Peter.”

“No, I’m not. You were wearing this jacket and the gray hat. That’s how I figured out where you were. Jones said that he recognized you because you were wearing that hat. When you left, June said you took nothing with you. She even showed me that you had left all of the hats behind. The only way …”

“I could have gotten the hat was if I came back here. Very clever, Peter. You’re still the smartest man in the room.” 

Peter didn’t like Neal’s sarcastic tone, but he deserved it. “Tell me what I said to you Neal – please.” Peter had the feeling it was going to be bad. He had a vicious tongue when he was off-balance. He’d learn to curb it over the years, but sometimes he lost control. “I can’t make it right if I don’t know what I did.”

Neal didn’t say anything, and Peter thought that this was truly the end. That he’d just have to get up and leave and never be welcomed back.

“I don’t think you can make this right, Peter - but I’d like to see you try.” He grimaced against the bitterness of the memory. “You thought I was playing you. That I was after something - you said… you said … ” Neal swallowed and looked away, like he couldn’t bear to say the words. “You said ‘El is MY wife - you don't get to bootstrap your dreams of a white picket fence onto the back of MY life. I don’t know what angle you’re playing, and you are playing at something - but don’t you EVER think that this is something you can steal from me.’ How - after everything - could you think that I’d be playing you?”

Peter wanted to deny those words, but hearing them flung back at him raised the specter of memory - of his own voice, of El chiding him for being so cruel. And he couldn’t help but hear the shadow of tears, of the agony of a friendship devastated by his own thoughtlessness. Of a heart given and then broken. “I understand now - I do. I would have left, too. That was unforgivable of me.” 

Peter got up - he didn’t want Neal to be any unhappier than he already was. “I’ll go. You don’t have to worry - I won’t trouble you anymore.” He didn’t think he could ever be more ashamed of himself than he was right now.

“What are you doing, Peter?”

“Going - you don’t want me here.”

“I don’t?”

“I think you just made your case pretty clearly.” Peter opened the door and turned back to Neal - one last time. “If you need anything - call me, send Mozzie. Just don’t …” He breathed in a small, painful shudder. “Just don’t disappear again, please.” 

He closed the door behind him.

_______

Neal was angry, furiously angry - but not at Peter. At himself. He spent nearly four years running and hiding and hating himself … for what? For something spoken in the heat of the moment, then forgotten.

And yet, he didn’t have the strength to hold onto that anger, that self-hatred any longer. Because something stood out from all the drama of the last few moments - Peter said he loved him. 

Hearing the door softly shut jarred him out of his epiphany. He opened it and called down to Peter.

“Did you mean it? What you said before.” He had to know.

Peter turned and looked up at him. “That I thought you were playing an angle? No - I was … I don’t know - shocked - jealous - shocked.”

“No - not that before. Now - just before. You said that you loved me.” The words echoed against the walls and Neal hated the neediness in his voice. He hated how desperate he sounded. But he had to know.

Peter came back up the stairs. “Yeah - I did. I do. I think I always have.”

“Oh.” It sort of hurt to breathe - but in a good way. He smiled, and the tightness in his chest eased. 

As he let Peter back into the apartment, a thought occurred to him. “You’re not saying that because I’m sick?”

Peter shook his head. “No - never. It took me a few days - that weekend - to work my head around it. Sometimes I’m a little slow on the uptake.”

Neal stood there, facing Peter - his nemesis, his _idée fixe_ and he didn’t quite know what to do. 

“Have your feelings changed?”

Neal shook his head. “No - though I wanted them to. There were times I almost wished I never made that bargain with you - that I did the rest of my time and walked out of prison a free man.”

“I’ve had those same feeling too.”

Neal bit his lip. “I’m sorry. Forgive me?” This all seemed a little too easy. But maybe it should be.

“For what?”

“Running away - for not throwing your words back in your face, for being such a self-hating coward.” He wrapped his arms around himself, shaking a little.

“If you’ll forgive me, too.”

Neal nodded, and tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. He started to cough and couldn’t stop. He suddenly doubled over, hacking and trying to catch his breath. He felt Peter’s hands on him, steering him to the couch. There was a warm, hard hand rubbing him through the heavy jacket he was still wearing. 

He stopped coughing long enough to ask for water, which materialized at his lips almost before he finished asking. It took a couple of sips before he could speak. 

“Thank you.” He finished the glass and shrugged off the jacket - the bout of coughing made him too warm.

Peter looked at him gravely. “How sick are you?”

“Very.” He kept it simple.

“Jones said you told his father you have leukemia.” Peter picked up one of his hands - rubbing his thumb against the knuckles. Neal wondered if Peter realized what he was doing. 

Neal nodded. “That appointment this morning feels like a year ago.”

“Are you going to die?” Neal hated the grief he already could hear in Peter’s voice.

“We all are - eventually.”

“Stop with the deflecting, Neal.” And there was the exasperation. Better.

“With treatment, my odds are good.”

“How good?” 

“You haven’t lost your interrogations skills, Agent Burke.” Peter was still holding his hand, still caressing his fingers. Neal thought that Peter didn’t have to ask him a single question - he’d give him his soul if he just kept that up.

“Neal…” And that exasperation was ratcheted up a notch.

“Better than fifty-fifty for a five-year survival rate.”

“You’re only expected to live for five years?” Neal wanted to lie if just to erase the anguish on Peter’s face. But he couldn’t.

“No - no. Cancer survival is measured in five year increments. I’ve been told that there is a seventy-five percent chance that I’ll survive for at least five years.” Neal sighed. “This was not what I expected from my life.” He pulled his hand from Peter’s grasp and walked to the terrace doors - the rain had started to fall in sheets, and a brisk wind blew it against the glass. Peter followed and stood behind him.

The warm palms against his shoulders startled him, but he didn’t turn around.

“Do you know what my biggest fear was?” Peter whispered to him.

Neal shook his head.

“That you were dead, and I’d never know.” Peter rested a cheek against his head. “That you were gone beyond my reach, beyond any reconciliation - that I’d spend the rest of my life looking for your face in a crowd, but I’d never find you. I’d never see you again, that we’d never be able to make this right.”

Neal wanted to cry. “I looked for you too - you were everywhere and nowhere. I’d see someone - it could have been you, and it wasn’t and I’d stand there, bereft. Sometimes I’d dream up these wonderful, elaborate schemes - maybe steal the Mona Lisa or one of Monet’s Water Lilies, just to set you on the chase. But I couldn't, when you’d catch me … you’d have such a look of disappointment. You wouldn’t even be able to look at me - you’d turn to someone and say ‘Once a thief, always a thief.’ I couldn’t bear that.”

Peter’s hands slid off his shoulders and wrapped around him. Neal reveled in the warmth of another body, of the touch of someone who loved him. And he cursed his failing body - it was going to be a long time before he and Peter … Neal didn’t let himself think that they’d never come together, that they’d never make love.

“I never thought you went back to the life.” Peter rested his cheek on his head. “No, never - not even for a minute.”

“You didn’t?” He twisted his head around, trying to gauge Peter’s honesty. Even in the half-darkened room, it wasn’t difficult to see that Peter was telling the truth. 

“You’ll have to ask Diana if you want verification. She was the one who insisted on regular checks of the Interpol databases for any of your signature crimes. The world’s been surprisingly free of major art thefts in the past few years.”

All of the lingering pain and fear and doubt evaporated. Peter’s faith in him was like the sun against the mist on a hot summer morning. “Truthfully, neither Neal Caffrey nor Julian Drummond was ever tempted.”

“Ahh, the cryptic Mr. Drummond.” There was a surprising touch of bitterness in Peter’s voice.

Neal turned in Peter’s arms. “What about him?” It was odd - after nearly four years of _being_ Julian, to talk about him in the third person.

Peter put him at arms length. “You said you were done with running - remember? But you must have had Drummond set up for years.” There was a wealth of hurt in that statement.

Neal thought about letting Peter believe that Julian was a pocket ace he had since before his prison days. But some old habits should be broken. “I did mean that - and I hadn’t intended to run, but I needed a backup plan. If just to keep me from running. Like an ex-smoker keeps a pack of cigarettes for twenty years after he stops.”

“Makes sense - in a very Neal Caffrey sort of way.” Peter brushed a hand through his hair, and Neal wanted to arch into him like a cat. 

When Peter did that again, Neal didn’t even try to stifle a moan of pleasure. “It’s been so long.”

Peter just kept up the stroking. “What’s been so long?”

“Since anyone’s touched me in affection.” Neal bit his lip, a little embarrassed at what he revealed.

Peter tilted up his chin, and they met eye to eye. “You mean...”

Neal gave him a small, self-deprecating smile. “Yeah - I didn’t want to settle.” He tucked his head against Peter’s shoulder. He hadn’t felt this warm, this safe, in half a lifetime.

And as good as it was, he needed to separate himself – he needed to know, and maybe even test both their wills.

“What’s the matter?” Peter reached for him, but Neal stepped back, out of reach. 

“I’ve changed, Peter. And not for the better.” Neal swallowed, mouth dry, nervous.

“Neal – what do you mean?”

He tilted his chin up, he wanted to defy the moment, defy the truth. “I’m … ugly – and I’m going to get a lot uglier.”

“Neal, don’t be foolish.” 

He dodged Peter’s hand and move away from the rain-streaked windows. Neal went into the bedroom and turned on a light. He pulled off the turtleneck and the t-shirt. “Look at me, Peter. And tell me if you like what you see.”

_______

He tried not to wince as the lamplight illuminated the emaciated hollows of Neal’s torso. The body that once rivaled the Greek ideal was only a memory now; his muscles were wasted, his ribs sticking out. 

Something must have showed on his face. Neal turned away and flicked off the light, perhaps to hide in the storm-darkened room. Peter stopped him.

“No – you misunderstand.” He held Neal’s forearms, so thin, so frail. “It was never about how you looked – you have to know that.” Neal wouldn’t meet his eyes. “You do know that, right?”

“Peter – come on. Let’s be honest.”

“I am, Neal. What you looked like never was what mattered to me.” Peter smiled gently. “Of course it’s a nice bonus that Neal Caffrey comes wrapped in a pretty package – but what counts has always been _you_ : the quick fire intelligence, the eagerness, the unfailing confidence, the passion. The loyalty. The sheer, ‘damn the torpedoes’ heart of you.” 

He placed his hand over that organ, hard palm meeting warm flesh. It beat, strong for now. “Can you understand that this is always what I have loved, will love, will always love?”

Neal hissed, but didn’t pull away. He said something that Peter couldn’t quite make out. “What’s the matter?”

He whispered it again. 

“Neal?”

Neal looked at him, all the facades finally stripped away. “Peter - I’m afraid.” 

He didn’t have to ask why. “I know, I am too.” He wrapped his arms around Neal, taking care not to bruise that fragile thinness. He felt Neal shake and begin to shudder.

“I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die. Please, Peter - I don’t want to die.” Neal scrabbled at his shoulders, his thin fingers and blunt nails clinging to him painfully. “I am so scared. I don’t want to die.”

Peter ran a soothing hand up and down Neal’s back, feeling every vertebrae and rib. Once upon a time, he’d have backed off and told Neal to cowboy up, because he was too disconcerted by strong emotions. But now there was nothing that could ever keep him from comforting him. He eased him over to the bed and sat them down. 

He let Neal cry, he let himself cry. For the wasted past, for the uncertainty of the future. As a counterpoint, a comfort to Neal, to his own anguish, Peter whispered back, “I am not going to let you die, I won’t let that happen.”

The storm moved off and the bright evening sun broke through the dark clouds, illuminating the apartment through the skylights.

 

**__**

FIN


End file.
